


loving is easy

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Series: doc and dayman [4]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Ableism, Addiction, Anthology, Blood, Character development??, Charbitch, Charlie's laundry list of issues, Dating, Domesticity, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Homophobia, Hospitals, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Stalking, canon-typical violence and humor, doc and dayman 3: the reckoning, doc opens a can of whoop-ass, expect LOTS of hurt/comfort, frank being an asshole, my favorite tropes are all h/c i'm sorry, tags will be added as this puppy grows, the plot gets even Cheesier(TM), this will be a big one folks, triggering language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: Charlie and Doc get to know each other a little better, and learn that things aren't always simple-- especially when history (or the Gang) gets involved.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys so fucking much for all your support. writing this series is ridiculously fun and exciting, and i'm pretty thrilled you guys like it as much as i do. this fandom is so small but so mighty, and i appreciate every comment i receive <3
> 
> okay, so this installment is big. too big. i'm sorry in advance for the wait, but this baby is honestly huge. each chapter will be a stand-alone, but there's a common narrative, i promise lmao. sometimes they'll be episode-based, sometimes they'll be original scenarios, and right now, i have five individual mini-arcs planned. jfc. pray for me, bc i've lost all control, my dudes
> 
> enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday morning waffles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter contains the singular use of a homophobic slur

**loving is easy**

1:

_9:00 A.M., on a Sunday, Philadelphia, PA_

The first thing Charlie does when he wakes up is sniff.

He doesn't know why, he just does (his nose is just the first part of his body that turns on, maybe?) but because he rolls onto his stomach a lot when he sleeps, he usually ends up with his face smushed into his pillow in the mornings. So that means the first thing he does, the second he wakes up, is get a huge whiff of his sheets.

This morning, Charlie sniffs into wakefulness and knows where he is right away. Doc’s sheets smell pretty different than his. For starters, they smell clean. _Really_ clean, like, new clothes or those blue candles. Charlie's been washing his sheets more regularly since meeting Doc, but even though he's busted ass trying to keep the apartment cleaner and worked to keep food and shit off the bed, there's already a lingering stink in the fabric that won't go away no matter how many times he takes them to the laundromat-- and Charlie _literally_ just fucking bought them. (He blames Frank. Mostly. He might have a little, tiny, sewer-related something to do with it, but he's tried to keep them clean, honestly.)

Anyways, Doc’s sheets smell like laundry soap straight out of a bottle-- that sweet Tide shit, the kind he loves to sneak hits of in the grocery store-- and a little like Doc’s pricey, crisp cologne. Beyond the bed, the apartment’s scent is pretty nice too, Charlie's noticed: soft and flowery, but not powerful or in-your-face. There’s not even the smallest hint of trash or rotting food in the air, something he _definitely_ doesn't mind too much. He could probably try to miss that his own apartment _,_ if he thought about it a lot-- miss Frank, too, and his keyboard and the pull-out bed-- but it’s not like he sleeps at Doc’s all the time. Just on weekends so far, not often enough for him to think about the apartment much when he's gone.

But because it's where _Doc_ usually is, Charlie finds himself daydreaming about the apartment pretty frequently. Thinking about watching movies on the couch, cooking in the kitchen, fooling around in Doc's bed. Speaking of, he’s definitely starting to get used to sleeping on a big, soft mattress, which is crazy nice: waking up tangled in sheets that feel smooth instead of scratchy on his legs, feeling so comfy that even, like, moving feels like too much work? Shit, dude, he  _loves_ Doc's bed. His back never hurts in the mornings when he sleeps over, and he sleeps all damn night, too, doesn't get too hot, and- the pillows have _feathers_ in them. Not real feathers, thank God, like from baby birds or anything, but fake feathers that make them feel like actual clouds beneath his head. The best word he can think of to describe sleeping at Doc's is  _l_ _uxurious_  (got that gem from the soap in Doc's shower),and he means that in the best way possible. Charlie could honestly write a love song about Doc’s bed just by itself. He's written a few about Doc already, so he could step it up and write about Doc in Doc's bedroom in Doc's bed. _What rhymes with sheets? Seats? Wheats? Meats?_ Oooh,  _sweets._ Yeah, that could be hot, he's gonna do that.

After smell, Charlie’s brain usually tunes into sound. This morning, Charlie's ears pick up the weird, empty sound of nothing. Well, not _nothing,_ exactly _(Can a person ever really hear nothing?_ He always hears a distant, whining ring in silence.), because there’s a little bit of a stirring around the bedroom: the chirping of a tufted titmouse that Charlie has painstakingly cultivated a nest for on Doc’s fire escape, the faraway rush of cars on the street below, the flat hum of the apartment’s central heating. There’s no wheezing, spiraling snore from a Frank curled at his side, no muffled yelling from floors above or below, no pipes groaning behind his head or police sirens dragging him awake. _Ugh._ It’s definitely easier to be a morning person when he sleeps at his own apartment, because it's so goddamn _loud_ there. It never really bothered him too much before, now that he thinks about it. But now it sort of does? Not a lot, but- sometimes, at his place, he'll kinda of miss being at Doc's. Sometimes. Well. More and more often, actually? He can't help it, Doc's place is sweet. Whatever. It's not like Doc  _minds_ when Charlie's over, anyway, which honestly makes it that much nicer to hang around.

Another thing about mornings at Doc's is that Doc sleeps like the dead. He always sleeps on his back and doesn't snore, not even a little, and actually sort of folds his hands on his chest a bit in the night, like a dude lying in a coffin or some shit. It's weird as all hell-- funny, too-- but Charlie sometimes has to strain to hear his steady breathing, even in the morning quiet. The first time he slept over at Doc’s apartment, a few weeks ago, all of it had made him feel pretty anxious: the silence, Doc’s faint shifting, waking up first and not knowing what the hell to do with himself until Doc woke up. He’d never had a boyfriend before, or really, ever slept over in somebody’s bed after messing around. Was he supposed to get up, or stay still until Doc woke up, too? Go make breakfast? What did Doc like to eat in the mornings? Would he want coffee or something? Charlie didn’t know _how_ to make coffee, not in Doc’s fancy machine, so what the fuck was he supposed to do?

He’d sat and panicked for at least thirty minutes before Doc woke up, only for Doc to laugh and cuddle close to kiss him on the cheek, saying Charlie didn’t have to wait for Doc to do anything at all, unless he wanted to, and that the only thing he shouldn’t do is force Doc out of bed, because it wouldn’t “end well for either of us”. Doc, Charlie has learned, is not a morning person. It's another unexpected weirdness about Doc that Charlie, for some reason, finds absolutely fucking hysterical. Doc gets  _grumpy._ And it's cute! It's honestly fucking cute, and Charlie grins like an idiot every time Doc eventually gets out of bed, groggy and pissy like the whole world is annoying.

He's also learned that Doc loves to kiss. Not just make out, which Charlie obviously loves to do-- Doc thinks he's a champ at it, which, uh,  _score_ \-- but, thing is, Doc will kiss his _cheeks?_  And his nose, and his temples, and even his chin and his forehead, without any reason at all sometimes. Doc is actually a super touchy person, not just in the apartment, but also outside it: on dates, in hello, and in front of other people, too.

Charlie doesn't mind it. At first, it had made him feel shy and nervous, and almost, like, embarrassed. Not because  _Doc_ embarrasses him or anything, but mostly because the guys and Dee, they never really... _do_ stuff like that. Dennis and Dee both talk shit about couples who fall over each other, saying they’re ‘overcompensating’ or whatever, and that people who kiss in public are attention whores who want to make single people feel like losers. Secretly, Charlie has always pegged them for jealous, or Dee at least, because she's  _always_ trying for a boyfriend, even when she doesn’t even seem all that interested in the guys she goes for, and Dennis just goes on and-fucking-on about dating being pointless all the time anyway. Charlie knows _that’s_ some bullshit, now, because he’s dating and it’s the coolest thing that's ever to him _,_ so, they can just fuck off with their bullshit opinions about couples anyway. (Mac is a whole different kind of drama, because his problem is when _dudes_ kiss in public. Which is- okay, so, he’s pretty used to that kind of denial from him by now, and it's lame and stupid, but Mac never fails to be weird as fuck about whole him-dating-Doc situation every time it comes up, so it’s starting to get on Charlie's nerves a bit.)

Still, he didn’t expect Doc to be so...casual and shit about it. It's probably just because Doc’s dated people before and is used to being touchy with his boyfriends, or maybe it’s just because Doc’s just _Doc,_ British and weird and somebody who doesn’t really care if people think he’s a poser for kissing Charlie in public. Kissing or holding hands definitely doesn’t _feel_ fake or dumb, because Doc never is. It’s one of the bajillion reasons he likes Doc so much. Charlie decided eventually that even if people do talk shit about him for touching on Doc in public, he doesn’t care? Doc’s random kisses make him feel...warm, like there’s a little space-heater wedged behind his ribs, and they still kinda catch him by surprise sometimes even though he's been dating Doc for a whole _month_ already.

(He can’t believe it’s been a whole month already. It’s been a crazy, insanely good month, more like a movie than real life. Doc is still the coolest, nicest, smartest dude in the world, and Doc still seems to like him a lot which is- just, fucking unreal. Dating Doc's just really, really awesome.)

Anyways, maybe the fluttery, _oh-shit_ feeling Doc makes in his stomach will go away after a while, maybe it won't. He'll probably be okay if it doesn't, though.

Charlie slowly recognizes the light seeping through his eyelids as “morning”, and turns his head to crack his eyes open. He squints in the sunlight pouring through the bedroom window and bouncing off the snow piled on the fire escape steps, and feels his mouth stretch into a smirk. Doc’s gonna have a bitch-fit when he wakes up to see last night's snowfall hasn't melted yet.

Carefully, Charlie shifts around, feet awkwardly tangled after a night of flailing through vivid dreams-- he has fuzzy almost-memories of a lizard army, his middle school cafeteria, and seeing his own face on the back of a milk carton-- and turns to look at Doc, who’s still asleep. His even, short hair is all ruffly and pressed flat where his head is buried in a pillow, and what’s visible of his face is slack and expressionless. Charlie just looks at him for a bit, because he can. He squashes the urge to reach out and run a finger over the smooth, unfurrowed skin between Doc’s eyebrows, where the skin is normally pinched in thought. He wonders if Doc’s dreams are any weirder than his, or if they’re smart or hard to understand like all of Doc’s favorite books. Doc _would_ be the type to have complicated, sciency dreams-- his dream self is probably, like, building a rocketship to Mars right now-- but the peaceful look on Doc’s face might just say differently.

 _Maybe_ _the only time Doc isn’t a genius is when he’s asleep,_ he thinks _._ Meh, probably not.

Charlie swallows a yawn and rolls his eyes towards the clock across the room on Doc’s dresser. It’s just after nine, and something foreign pangs sharply in Charlie’s gut at the sight. He- did he have something he was supposed to do today? He wasn’t supposed to meet the gang this morning for something, was he? He doesn’t think so, but Charlie's morning memory's a bit like swiss cheese until he gets up and around. The bar doesn’t open on Sundays until eleven, most of the time, because Dennis and Dee are both obsessed with beauty sleep (like that's a thing), so it's not like he's late?

He thinks for a few moments longer, but doesn’t come up with anything, and so ignores the weird stick poking at his brain. He attempts to extricate himself from the sheets without making a ton of noise, torso twisting as he turns to lift his legs from beneath the big, warm grey comforter. Feet halfway to the floor, Charlie almost jumps at the feeling of cool fingers on his naked back.

“Nnghh,” he hears, and turns to see Doc with his face still planted in a pillow, utterly unmoved save for the blindly outstretched arm. Doc’s thin fingers sweep up his spine as if searching for something, roaming around to his shoulder.

“Uh, morning?” Charlie says, trying not to be too loud. Doc hisses anyway, and Charlie grins.

“Shhh,” Doc says, voice almost inaudible through his pillow. His head tilts just enough away from his pillow to allow for speech, eyes still shut. “S’early...Still time for sleeping.” Doc’s voice is raspy and slurred, and Charlie shouldn’t enjoy the sound of it as much as he does: it just sounds like Doc needs a glass of water or something, but it _also_ makes something warm ripple across the muscles in Charlie's stomach. Doc's morning voice is accidentally sexy, like most things about Doc are, and it's just another reason why he likes sleeping over at Doc's place.

“It’s morning for me,” Charlie says. “I’m up with the sun, Doc.”

Doc groans, brows coming together in a hilarious crush of wrinkles as he returns his face to his pillow. “S’ridiculous.” His fingers find Charlie’s arm and close around his elbow, tugging weakly. “Lay back down.”

“I was gonna brush my teeth,” Charlie explains, but Doc scoffs and tugs again, with pitiful effort.

“No, you weren’t,” Doc says, words strung together in a garbled thread. “You’re going back to sleep so I can sleep.”

“Aww, but I was gonna-”

“No,” Doc grumbles. “You’ll yawn and sing and slam my cabinets. Like a bull in a bloody china shop, you are. Stay here.”

“Doc-”

“ _Stay,_ ” Doc says, voice sleep-rough, and Charlie’s heart flutters. Smile growing, Charlie turns back, and thinking he’s won, Doc’s grip loosens on his arm and drops away. Instead of lying back down however, Charlie swings his legs back onto the bed, scooches over to Doc, and wraps his entire body around Doc like a sloth.

“Nnnh, _Charlie,_ ” Doc protests, his voice the closest Charlie thinks it'll ever get to whining. “Want to _sleep._ ” He thunks a sleepy head against Charlie’s chest, turning rebelliously in Charlie’s full body grip.

“But it’s _morning,_ ” Charlie says cheerily in Doc’s ear, nipping at his earlobe, and Doc moans against Charlie’s skin. Probably not in the hot way, but it makes Charlie smirk all the same.

“Ughh. Not until I’m up, it isn’t.”

Charlie giggles. “We were gonna have breakfast at the new waffle place this morning, remember?”

“No.”

Charlie presses his nose against Doc’s hair, just behind his ear. _Soft._ “Don’t want waffles?”

“Want _sleep._ ”

“We didn’t even stay up that late last night, dude!”

Charlie feels Doc’s mouth curve against his chest. “Not that you didn’t _try_ to keep me up,” he rumbles, and a little _zip_ of heat bungee-jumps up and down Charlie’s body. Blushing, he plants his face in the slope of Doc’s neck, feeling Doc’s steady pulse against his lips.

“Yeahhh,” he says, gripping Doc’s body a little closer. Whatever sleepiness he had left shape-shifts into an easy horniness. _Mayyyybe they can-_

“Oh, no,” Doc mumbles, shifting his neck away from Charlie's increasing attention. “Know what you’re after. Want sleep. G'brush your teeth.”

“Thought you wanted me to stay in bed,” Charlie says teasingly, dropping sloppy kisses up Doc’s jaw, and Doc lifts a half-hearted hand to bat him away.

“Changed m'mind,” Doc huffs. His eyes are still closed, even as he pushes at Charlie’s chest. “Go on. Too tired fr'that. Greedy thing.”

“Awww,” Charlie pouts. He rolls away with a grunt, because technically he won, and stands up. His back pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies as he stretches, bare feet arching on the cool hardwood as he extends his arms as far as they’ll go, and Doc grumbles to himself like an old man as Charlie rounds around the bed towards the bathroom.

“Shhh,” Doc says, dragging the comforter over his head, and Charlie lets out a loud, smacking yawn on his way out, just to hear Doc mutter under his breath. Waiting for him on Doc’s vanity, in a little cup next to Doc’s own, is a yellow toothbrush, placed there especially for him to use whenever he stays at Doc’s. They bought it last weekend at the pharmacy for Charlie’s third planned night over, and he’s not quite adjusted the novelty of having a _second_ toothbrush just for Doc’s place. Because seriously, two toothbrushes? It's like having two matching pairs of shoes! Being a boyfriend, Charlie's realized, comes with tons of bonus quirks. Seeing it there, though-- next to Doc’s, by Doc’s sink, in Doc’s bathroom--fills Charlie with a feeling he can’t quite put into words. Whatever it is leaves him smiling goofily through toothpaste at his reflection, and whistling as he moves from the bathroom to the kitchen. He helps himself to a glass of water-- he's slowly getting the hang of where Doc keeps stuff in his cabinets, thank God, because for a normal kitchen there are  _so_ many of them-- and climbs up onto a bar stool to wait, scratching at the tuft of hair on his stomach just above the waistband of his briefs.

Sitting in his underwear in Doc’s kitchen should feel weird, but it totally doesn’t. Maybe _that’s_ weird, but Charlie feels too content to question it. He’s learned it’s sometimes easier to just accept that some things with Doc just _aren’t_ as weird as they should be, and that questioning stuff only gets him worked up in the end.

He listens to the syrup-slow movements of Doc in the next room, smirking to himself, and watches Doc trudge half-blind into the bathroom like a zombie. It’s funny as hell how willfully stubborn Doc is to get around in the mornings. It’s just as weird as Doc’s hatred of snow and reality TV, and it’s these weird things about Doc that help make Charlie feel better about his own weird, gross habits. Sure, Doc will _never_ be as weird as Charlie-- not even if he started walking around naked everywhere or eating sidewalk gum-- and he is the farthest thing from gross, but at least he’s not so normal that Charlie feels weird in comparison just breathing around him.

Besides, he thinks Doc’s little weirdnesses are interesting. And wicked funny.

Doc stumbles into the kitchen from the bathroom, dragging a hand through his messy hair and making it messier. He grunts a noise that’s not really a word and brushes a palm across Charlie’s back as he walks by. He makes it to the coffee maker and busies himself for a moment, pulling down a mug, grounds, and a filter as Charlie watches, swinging his feet patiently beneath the bar. Maybe this time he’ll finally get the hang of the dumb thing if he pays attention better this time. Last week, he'd tried to make coffee with Doc’s fancy-ass maker and ended up with a pot of yellow-brown weak shit that Doc wouldn’t even give a taste. Doc likes his morning coffee super dark and bitter as shit, and then tea at all other times (because he’s British and not liking tea is like, illegal or something). Charlie pretty much hates both, unless there’s lots of sweet stuff dumped in. Doc wrinkles his nose every time Charlie has either and reaches for sugar. It’s pretty cute, so sometimes he adds a little too much even for him, just for the fun of it.

The coffee maker rasps to life like a dying animal, filling the apartment with noise, and Doc watches it blearily until it’s done. Charlie smirks at him the whole time. It’s only when Doc has a mug in hand, lifting it to his lips, that the morning fog clears from his face. The expression Doc makes when he takes a steaming sip, without much care for how hot the coffee’s gotta be, is one of Charlie's favorites. (He's got a bit of a mental catalog by now, of Doc's best faces. He'll probably write a list of them to keep for posterity at some point, whenever he has the time.)

Doc circles around towards Charlie, officially a living person now that he's had his caffeine. “Good morning,” he says, his sexy-sleepy voice smoothed out into his normal, easy one. He presses a kiss against Charlie’s temple, almost where his bullet scar begins, and Charlie beams.

“Morning,” he says. He leans easily into Doc on his stool. “Waffle time?”

* * *

Charlie gets chocolate chip. Doc gets cinnamon blueberry. Both orders come with whipped cream, a hot drizzle of golden syrup, and orange juice. They’re _kickass_ waffles, and Charlie bangs out a pretty sweet slam poem about them on the spot, because they’re that amazing and inspirational. Doc agrees, and says it was worth going out in the snow for them, which just shows how much he likes them. They decide to eat breakfast at the Briar Rose regularly, and Charlie thinks that Dee will really like the pretty flowery plates and clean, non-sticky wood tables. Mac will too, although he’ll probably pretend he won’t.

It’s not until they’re finished and Charlie’s slapping down a cash tip for their chipper waitress (because Doc, like usual, insists on paying for the rest) that it hits him, and it's like a bomb dropping on his brain.

 _I_ _t’s Sunday,_ he thinks slowly, with realization that feels like sinking. Sunday _morning._

He goes to the Common Grounds every Sunday at nine.

...And he totally forgot.

“Charlie?”

He looks up from the crumpled dollar bills he just placed on the table to met Doc’s eyes, heart racing in his ears. He missed what he thinks Doc just said, and Doc is sinking back into his chair as if he had started to stand but changed his mind.

“Alright, darling?”

“Um.” He blinks. “It’s Sunday?”

Doc’s lips twist up in amusement. “It is.”

Charlie shakes his head. “It’s Sunday morning, dude.”

“I- yes,” Doc says, eyebrows drawing together like curtains. “...Is everything alright?”

“It’s Sunday morning and I’m _here,_ ” Charlie says pointedly, hand gesturing to himself in the booth and moving to rake through his hair. “I skipped on. Uh. I skipped on seeing the Waitress this morning.”

Doc stills. His face goes kinda like Mac’s does during scary movies, pale and stiff and easy to startle.

“I...can’t believe I forgot, dude. I never forget. I just-” Air whistles out of his mouth. “Wow. Didn’t know I could forget about her. Never have before.”

In front of him, Doc’s scarecrow posture deflates like an old balloon. “Charlie, I- I’m sorry. But I...remembered.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What, seriously? And you didn’t mention it?”

Doc somehow looks _smaller,_ shoulders bunched under his neat blue parka and eyes cast downwards. “I- last night, when you suggested this outing, I...” He swallows visibly, the soft pink Charlie enjoys so much slipping across his cheekbones. “...I thought you’ve been offering to spend your Sunday mornings with... _me_ instead. Intentionally.”

Charlie stares as Doc visibly wilts, sadder than Charlie’s ever seen him. He remembers with perfect clarity, like a flashback on a TV show, the moment last night when he'd asked Doc if he wanted to try a new breakfast place downtown the next morning. Doc had just looked at him, all crinkly-eyed and pleased, and Charlie had just chalked it up to a relatable love for waffles. Then Doc had got super handsy, actually, and they’d ended up in bed pretty fast after that, just like last Saturday when Charlie said he wanted to go to the park in the morning and-

-ohhh _shit_.

“I see now I was mistaken,” Doc says, tearing Charlie from Saturday memories. His voice is- it’s almost _crushed._ “I- I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-”

“Hey, whoa,” Charlie says. The look on Doc’s face makes him feel like somebody's curb-stomping his heart with cleats on. He leans over the table to snatch Doc's hand, halting him mid-sentence. “I'm not, like, _mad_ at you, man.”

As crazy as it sounds, though, he totally _could_ be? In fact, it's almost weird that he's not. He's never tolerated any kind of interruption to his Waitress time before, not ever. If Doc had insisted he _not_ go by the coffee shop before or something like that, he might have even pulled a fit. But Doc didn't do anything like that, or even close. Doc had always been nice about Charlie's love for the Waitress before they started dating, and had offered actual advice for how to make her like him more-- probably because he never told Doc about the restraining order, though, because Doc would have had morals about that shit. His advice had been so good that it actually _worked_ (a little) to make the Waitress nice to him (sort of), and had ended up making it easier for Charlie to stop focusing on her so much (because writing down her day in his journals had taken up a lot of his time).

Now that he thinks about it, since getting official with Doc, he hasn't thought too much about her at all, except to compare his old ideas of dating her to the reality of dating Doc. Sure, sometimes he still feels the urge to go see her, or wonders what she wore today. He doesn't know if thinking about her will ever go away. But Charlie has the suspicion it's only hard because he did for so _long_. It's kinda like the opposite of learning to put on deodorant and wash his sheets-- the less he sees her, and more time he spends with Doc instead, the less he feels the urge to look her up or go through her trash.

Also? The insane idea of getting pissed at Doc, especially right now when he looks like a kicked freakin’ puppy, makes him want to crawl into a sewer drain _._

“Dude, I fucked up, not you,” Charlie explains. Doc blinks at him, fingers slowly tangling with his. “I totally wasn’t even thinking about her, even a little bit, until just now. And that’s only because the tip, dude. And I don’t even think about her that much at all anymore, especially when I’m with you. It's my bad.”

Doc’s eyebrows tilt up and his face blooms in color, like that was _exactly_ the right fucking thing Doc needed to hear, and Charlie’s brain stutters to a halt.

“Wait,” he blurts. His thoughts collide like a bunch of trains on fucked up railroad tracks. _Wait, wait, wait._

Is it because- does Doc seriously-

“Dude,” Charlie sputters. “Did you-”

Doc frowns at him, eyes all big and brown, and _oh my God_ , Charlie thinks.

“Dude,” he says, stunned. He feels so suddenly and awfully _guilty_ that he wants to die on the spot. _Oh my_ _God_. “I’m your _boyfriend._ ”

Doc huffs a surprised laugh, blinking in confusion. “I. Yes? You are.”

“I’m your _boyfriend_ ,” Charlie insists. “And that means- Jesus, I might have been crazy about her for forever, okay, but I’m not dating her, man, I’m dating _you._ ” His voice gets scratchy and sharp as words come out of his mouth faster, like a clumsy bow dragging across violin strings. “Because I like you _,_ okay, because you’re awesome and the nicest, smartest dude on the planet and-”

Charlie’s struck by an image of Doc mooning over a hot, sassy blond waiter. It’s like a sucker punch, and he immediately wants to puke _._

“Charlie, what's-”

“I’m an asshole,” Charlie says, distraught. “Oh my God. I’m the shittiest boyfriend ever. I’m worse than that whiny dude from _Friends._ I’m worse than _Dennis!”_

“You are _not,"_  Doc says, alarmed, and Charlie shakes his head, hands pulling back to curl up through his hair and grip two handfuls by the roots.

“You think I like the Waitress even though I’m dating you!” Shame makes his voice crack into a thousand pieces. In front of him, Doc's face _drops_. “I’m the _worst!"_

Doc abruptly stands up, exiting the booth. Charlie’s stunned into silence as he moves to Charlie’s side and extends a wordless hand. Charlie blinks dumbly for a second before he takes it, unable to comprehend the expression on Doc’s face. He’s hauled out of the booth and swiftly dragged from the restaurant, out the door and into the wintry air.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Doc says, as they come to a stop at the street corner. The March wind bites at Charlie's cheeks and ruffles the fur on Doc's parka. “But I wasn’t going to continue that conversation in a cafe across from you in a booth, where I couldn’t touch you.” He takes Charlie’s other hand, pulling him close enough that they’re standing only a few inches from each other. “Charlie. You’re a wonderful boyfriend.”

Charlie’s heart break-dances at the words, but he doesn’t believe them. “I’m so not, dude,” he says, voice shot to pieces. “You thought I was- that I was _thinking_ about her when I’m supposed to be thinking about you. Boyfriends don’t think about other girls when they’re dating somebody! That’s- that's what _assholes_ do, man! If you thought about some waiter dude all the time, when you were with _me,_ I’d totally lose it! I’d break shit and probably, like, cry my eyes out!”

“I didn’t believe you were ‘thinking about her all the time’,” Doc denies, grip tightening on Charlie’s hands. There’s a funny thread to his voice, and Charlie realizes painfully it’s because Doc’s a _horrible_ liar.

“But I didn’t say I wasn’t!” he fires back, too loud and too fast. “And- And I should have, dude! You even went with me to see her a couple times, before we started dating, even though you liked me and I liked you and...” Charlie trails off, an ugly thought smacking him upside the brain. “You would have let me go see her anyway. You would have, even though we’re boyfriends! Dude!”

Doc closes his eyes. “I can’t just- _tell_ you to stop having feelings for her,” he confesses. His voice is quiet, like Doc's trying to hide how hurt he is, and Charlie wants to _die._ “No matter what you feel for me, I- I understand how long you cared for her, and that feelings like those don’t just disappear overnight-”

He can’t do it. He can’t listen to this, knowing it’s all his fucking fault he made Doc feel so bad. Casting off Doc’s grip to grasp the collar of his coat, Charlie drags him close and kisses him quiet. Eyes shut tight, he doesn’t pull away until Doc starts kissing back, neck craning for a better angle and sending warmth pouring through Charlie’s entire body. Doc's lips are kinda cold, already, and all Charlie wants to do is warm him up too, exactly the way Doc does to him, and- Jesus, he's gotta, like,  _know_ this shit-

“I don’t want to date her,” Charlie blurts, pulling away slightly breathless, breath puffing white in the cold. “Or anybody else. Okay? I want to date you, dude. _Just_ you, because you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met and because you like me and because I’ve never liked someone the way I like you. I’m sorry that I didn’t just- _tell you_ all that stuff earlier and let you think I still liked her. That’s- so bad, dude, like, I didn’t even think about it, which is a- a really shitty excuse. I'm sorry, okay? But I just- when I remembered it was Sunday, I realized that I haven’t gone to see her at the coffee shop in _weeks,_ dude, and I didn’t even _notice_ because I’d been with you.”

Doc’s eyes are shining when he cups a chilled hand on Charlie’s cheek. Charlie’s heart is in his throat and he’s very close to teary, but he doesn’t want to cry before he finishes what he has to say. “And even though you told me why it’s fucked up and stuff, if we weren’t dating, I’d probably go to coffee shops looking for you too, okay? Except it would be worse, because now I know all this stuff about you that I can’t stop thinking about, _all the time,_ even when I’m not with you. Like, how weird and hilarious it is that you hate snow, and that you like your coffee super dark and nasty bitter, and that you have a massive crush on the dude that plays Superman-”

“I do _not-”_

“And that you’re a really bad liar, which is good, ‘cuz you hardly ever lie, which is also good.” Charlie steadies, grin growing, and presses his lips to Doc’s blushing cheekbone. “That you love to kiss and touch all over me, for like, no reason at all, and that you’re a grumpy zombie in the mornings.” Charlie’s voice piles up, going thick. “And because you’re the only person in the whole universe who tells me I’m not stupid or the worst when I really, really am.”

“You’re not stupid,” Doc whispers. “Or the worst. You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’d do anything for you. Even go to coffee shops for waitresses who have no idea what they’re missing.”

“That’s crazy, dude,” Charlie says, smiling so widely it hurts. “The only person I wanna follow around is you.”

Doc’s eyes crinkle in a chuckle that makes Charlie’s entire body hum like a choir. “I should be so lucky,” he says, and Charlie kisses him again, standing up in his tiptoes to reach. He slips his arms through Doc’s jacket to wrap them around his warm-sweatered middle, and totally forgets the cold, the people walking around them, and any other place he could be on a Sunday morning.

* * *

They eventually stop making out, because Doc literally starts trembling like a leaf and Charlie loses enough feeling in his face and lips that it kills the magic a bit. Hands tucked in their pockets and arms hooked up in an awkward but warm pretzel, they make their way towards where Doc left the car. They’re just coming up on the last street corner left to round before they get to where they parked, and Charlie is so ready to get back to Doc’s, where it’s warm and where there’s totally some more magic waiting for him, judging by the fun glimmer in Doc’s eyes.

“Hey, you have any hot chocolate mix at home? Swiss Miss or whatever? Because I can make a mean hot chocolate, dude, and that sounds awesome right now.”

Doc _hmms._ “I’m not quite sure, actually. I haven’t had hot chocolate in a while, not since we went ice skating back in November. That does sound like a nice treat, for today’s weather.”

“At least it isn’t snowing right now, dude,” Charlie says, and almost on cue, a rogue snowflake zooms down from the overcast sky across their path. Doc’s resulting scowl is epic, and Charlie cackles at the sight.

“Dude, Father Winter just gave you the finger,” he says, and Doc sighs like he just got a massive box of papers to grade, unhooking his arm from Charlie’s to fuss pointlessly with the zipper of his coat.

“So it appears,” Doc says, with an annoyance that isn't all that real. They round the corner, hugging the sidewalk. “Why on Earth I decided to live in the North remains a mystery to me-”

Doc’s cut off sharply when a man rounding the corner drives himself straight into his right shoulder. Doc stumbles back with an _oof,_  knocked off balance, and Charlie sees Doc’s back foot skid forward beneath his weight on a stretch of ice. He doesn’t move in time to catch Doc’s arm before he falls, landing hard on his ass and an outstretched hand. The sharp inhale Doc makes from the ground makes Charlie's heart jerk.

“Oh my God!” Charlie squats down in the slush immediately to reach for him. Doc’s face is screwed up in pain and he hisses as he sits up, curling his arm to his chest.

“Dude, are you okay?!”

Doc grimaces, cradling his hand by the wrist. “I might have pulled something,” he mutters, voice strained. “Bloody hell, that hurts.”

“Holy shit, dude, I can’t believe that just happened,” Charlie says, hands hovering uselessly around Doc, worried he’ll make it worse by tugging Doc to his feet. He whips his head to stare after the man who just plowed Doc into the ground, and sees the man didn’t even turn to look.

“Hey!” he hollers, as he gingerly helps Doc to stand. “Watch you’re going, asshole!”

“Don’t take up so much of the sidewalk then,” the guy shouts back, ugly face twisted up, and anger flashes through Charlie’s bones like an electric shock.

“Not our fault you're fucking _blind!”_ he cries, pitch skyrocketing.

“Fuck off, pipsqueak!”

“YOU FUCK OFF!”

“Charlie-” Doc begins, but Charlie ignores him, fists clenched and neck taut. The guy lifts up a hand up give him the bird.

“Go home and cry about it with your boyfriend, faggot!” he calls, and molten lava pours all over Charlie's brain.

“COME BACK AND SAY THAT TO MY FACE! I’LL BRUSH YOUR TEETH WITH MY FIST, BITCH!”

“Try it, dumbass!”

 _Ooh, he's gonna go dental on this bitch, mother_ fucker, _he's_ \-- Rage lurches him forward, his vision tunneled directly on the guy’s back just where he’s gonna charge. He’s barely stepped forward when suddenly a hand grabs his arm tight, holding him back.

“Charlie!”

Charlie jerks his neck to look at Doc fast enough to get whiplash, and the look on his face is like an anvil to the head.

Doc’s skin is chalk-white and his eyes are wide and freaked. His hurt hand is held loose against his chest and his other one grips Charlie’s arm so tightly it’s almost painful.

Charlie’s never seen the expression Doc’s wearing on his face before.

“Dude,” he whispers, all thoughts of the asshole behind them wiped away. “Are you okay?”

Doc swallows harshly, snowflakes picking up around them and falling into his dark hair. “Charlie,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Charlie numbly bobs his head, frowning. “Okay,” he says, the sound of Doc’s voice making worry sprout up in his gut. He reaches forward, linking his arm back with Doc’s, and there’s a second where Doc stiffens at the touch, almost like he’s going to pull away. Charlie’s stomach drops like he missed a step on the stairs.

“Doc?” he asks, voice small even though he doesn’t really know why.

Doc doesn’t look at him, walking forward. “C’mon. It’s snowing,” he says, and nothing else. Charlie follows him, heart in his throat.

* * *

Doc’s wrist isn’t hurt enough to keep him from driving them back to the apartment. He doesn’t say very much on the way back, unless to answer Charlie’s hesitant questions about his arm, and his voice is pretty flat when he does, so Charlie doesn’t ask too much. It must hurt a lot, because Charlie’s never heard Doc be so quiet, or seen his jaw clenched so tight.

They make it all the way to the apartment building, up the elevator, and through Doc’s front door before Charlie can’t stand the frosty feeling crawling over his skin a second longer.

“Doc,” he tries, but Doc interrupts him.

“Charlie,” Doc says. His voice is awkward and wrong, like all the- the  _good_ stuff has been sucked out of it, and Charlie _hates_ it. “Would you... please help me take off my coat?”

“Of course, man,” Charlie says, stepping forward. He huddles close, watching Doc shrug off the coat sleeve of his good arm before stepping forward to slowly tug at the other. Doc's face goes tight and pinched as his wrist is freed, mouth set in a stony frown, eyebrows stitching together. Charlie’s heart pangs.

When the coat's off, he hangs it up and steps close to Doc, who's turning his wrist slowly and wincing. Without asking or really thinking about it, Charlie reaches out with his own to take Doc's hand in his.

“This looks like it hurts a lot,” he says quietly. He cradles the hand like a baby bird, frowning over the swollen pink of Doc's wrist and the thin bleeding scuffs across his palm from scraping across the pavement. He slides a gentle thumb over the abused skin, just across Doc's pulse point. “You sure you're okay?”

He looks up to see the solemn expression on Doc's face waver and give way. His shoulders slump. “I- yes, I'm fine. It does hurt, but not too much.”

“Do you want band-aids or something? Or, like, aspirin?” He blows cool air across the injured skin, remembering how skinned knees feel like they're burning, and Doc softens further, a smile curling at his lips. The relief Charlie feels when he sees it makes his knees feel like limp noodles.

“No, I'm alright. Thank you.” Doc sighs. “I'm sorry, Charlie, I'm not very talkative when I’m in pain. I think I'll just need some ice for my wrist.”

“Not even disinfectant?” Charlie questions, eyeing the cuts, and Doc smiles.

“Mm. You're right, that's a good idea,” he agrees, and Charlie slowly beams.

“Alright, dude, sit,” he orders, feeling more confident now that Doc's weird mood is gone. “I'll get that stuff, you sit.”

Doc chuckles as Charlie pushes him towards the big blue couch in the living room. “I fell on my wrist, not my head,” he says, and Charlie blows a raspberry.

“So?” He takes Doc by the shoulders and firmly pushes him down until he sits. Then, after pausing to think a moment, he bends down to peck Doc on the forehead. “Stay,” he says, and Doc's eyes crinkle at the corners. Charlie’s heart lifts, because if the crinkles are out then everything is right again.

“Charlie,” Doc says, and Charlie waves a hand at him.

“Shush. I have to do boyfriend stuff. Sit.” Doc chuckles again and lets him go, and Charlie rushes to the kitchen. He snags a lumpy ice pack from the freezer and a hand towel from a drawer, then scoops a familiar bottle of disinfectant from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. After that he circles back around to plop down next to Doc, flicking open the cap of the disinfectant bottle and dribbling some onto the towel. Then, reaching for Doc's hand like before, he begins to dab as gently as he can at the cuts on Doc's skin.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he whispers, as Doc sucks in a breath through his teeth, and Doc shakes his head.

“Ignore me,” he says. “I have a low pain tolerance.”

“Nah. Bleeding hurts,” Charlie says simply, because it's true, and falls quiet to concentrate, dabbing until he thinks all the cuts are as clean as they're gonna be of little bits of gravel. When he looks back up again, Doc is looking right at him, eyes all focused.

“What?” he asks, blushing. “I do it wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Doc says, voice low.  _Fond,_ Charlie thinks, remembering the word with fuzzy little moths flying around in his gut. Doc leans forward, free hand coming to slide beneath Charlie's chin and cup his face. “I just have a wonderful boyfriend.”

He tugs Charlie in for a short, easy kiss, his lips soft and warm. Charlie's heart stutters and takes flight, and when Doc pulls away he ducks his head as all the blood in his body rushes to his cheeks. Jesus. Doc will say the _nicest_ fucking things. It makes him want to hide his face sometimes, even if it's just to smile like an idiot.

“Here,” he says through a bashful grin, and extends the ice pack. Doc smiles, affection written all over his face, and takes it. “Do you. Uh. Think you strained it or something?”

“Something like that,” Doc says, pressing the ice hesitantly against his wrist. “If the swelling doesn't go down by tomorrow, I'll consider making a doctor’s appointment. At the moment, I'm pretty sure it will be fine with ice and some tender care for now.”

“Cool,” Charlie says. “I'm glad you didn't break it or anything, that would have sucked.”

“Mmm, yes. Grading papers with a full brace would have been deeply unpleasant.”

“You're seriously the only person I know who's left handed, dude. It's way unlucky that you hurt your writing hand.”

“I tried to catch myself with my dominant hand,” Doc says with a shrug. “At least I escaped with only this and a bruised arse to speak of.”

Charlie snickers.  _Arse._ “Yeah, I guess.”

“Reminds me of when I broke my arm in secondary school,” Doc says, adjusting the ice pack a bit.

“How'd you do that?” Charlie's heard Doc tell enough stories that he knows “secondary school” is basically high school.

The edge of Doc’s lip curls up. “I- I actually fell out of my bedroom window. I'd been. Well. I'd been attempting to sneak out of the house.”

“For real?” Charlie asks, delighted. “ _You_ tried to sneak out? Why?”

Doc’s expression is weirdly torn between something like pride and embarrassment. “I was intent on going to a music festival with my friends, even though I was grounded and forbidden my parents to go.”

“Holy shit, dude! What the hell did you do to get _grounded?_ You tell 'em you were too smart for chores or something?”

Doc rolls his eyes, amused, before shifting back to get comfortable on the couch. He toes off his snow-crusted shoes, polka dotted, long-socked ankles moving to cross on the coffee table in front of him. “Hardly," he says. "I. Um. I actually had a very poor grade in maths. And my score in gym was nothing to be proud of either.”

“You got grounded because you had _bad grades?”_ Charlie can’t fathom it. It's like finding out Doc used to be an assassin, or that Queen once got booed off stage. “But you're the smartest dude on the _planet_.”

Doc laughs and shakes his head. “No, no- please, you say that so often, but I’m really, honestly not."  _Pssh._ Charlie will need proof of that shit. "Maths gave me _such_ grief in school, and I had a petty moral problem with gym. Well, I say petty, but I still cannot believe physical ability can impact scores at an academic institution. I understand, obviously, the importance of physical activity for children but some people just aren't _built_ for badminton, honestly, and-”

Doc’s setting up for a full ramble, and while it's definitely cute, Charlie wants to hear the rest of the story.

“So what did your parents do when they found out, dude?”

“Oh, well.” Doc's smile is rueful. “They were unamused by my escape attempt.” He chuckles, eyes doing a sort of twinkle that only he could manage to pull off. (Doc's expression is story-mode is another one of Charlie's favorites.) “I ended up grounded another two weeks with a full schedule of extra chores-- all doable even with my arm in a sling.”

“Duuuude,” Charlie says, grinning. “That sucks.”

“Yes, I know. But I deserved it. The chores were a little excessive, though.” Doc sighs, dropping his legs and leaning forward to place the ice pack on the coffee table. “Did you ever get in trouble like that?”

“What, for like sneaking out? Nah, dude. Mom wouldn't notice at all if I didn't go to school, and I skipped a _lot._ Didn't see the point when I didn't get a lot of the homework and didn't like a lot of the people there, y'knkow? But she’d like, totally freak if I wasn't at home by eight, because that's when she went to bed and she had to see me and do some stuff in my room before she did so I wouldn't die or whatever.” Charlie looks away, folding his arms against his chest. The amusement he felt hearing Doc's story has crumpled and died by now, leaving him tired and kinda bummed. “I dunno. Mom's just. Whatever. She freaks out over tiny shit but doesn't notice a lot, either? it's- ugh. Whatever.”

Doc isn't smiling anymore, and Charlie feels shitty for bringing down the mood. “Sorry. I don't really like talking about her, she drives me crazy.”

Doc cautiously shifts his wrist onto the arm of the couch and leans back to look at Charlie directly. “I have noticed you don’t speak of her often. And that, when you do, it’s to mention something she does that...bothers you.”

Charlie makes a gruff noise. The mere mention of his mom is enough to make him feel tense and halfway to annoyed. “Yeah. There’s, like, a ton of reasons I don’t like to talk about her. Not just because she irritates the shit out of me sometimes, but because there’s lots of stuff she has to do with I don’t really wanna...think about? I don’t know.” Charlie sighs, craning his neck back on the couch cushion. “I only really get set off when I think about her too much. I got pretty pissed off with Dennis slept with the Waitress, too, but that was different and I didn’t like, beat him up or anything. I just-” Charlie cuts himself off, and bites the inside of his cheek.

Doc’s hand finds his knee, squeezing gently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t feel ready to, Charlie. Or at all, if that’s preferable. I won’t push you.”

“I know.” Charlie kicks off his shoes and draws his legs upwards to fold himself up, his stomach feeling like an iron bowling ball. He reaches back out for the hand Doc withdrew, fingers entwining with his on top of Doc’s left thigh. “The guys don’t really get why my mom drives me crazy. I mean, Mac kinda knows, but only 'cause he saw me totally lose it once a few Christmases ago.” He swallows loudly. “I kinda, um, went nuts on a mall Santa.”

“‘Went nuts’?” Doc asks, eyebrows ticked upwards.

“You don’t wanna know, dude,” Charlie says, shaking his head. Even the memory of it makes him feel trapped and gross, like his brain is stepping into a nasty bathroom stall. “I barely remember it, and I hope you, like, _never_ find out. I didn’t  _kill_ him or anything like that, but it was, uh. Pretty bad. I feel like shit thinking about it even though it happened forever ago.”

Doc thins his lips. His eyebrows are tight and together, so Charlie knows he's using that genius brain of his, and for once, Charlie doesn't really want to know what he's thinking. “And...this incident has to do with your mother?”

Charlie takes his hand from Doc’s to dig his fingernails into the denim of his jeans, the weird urge to move, do something forceful with his hands, making him feel like a stretched rubber band inside. “Yeahhh.” He sucks in and lets out a tightly-wound breath. “I. Uh. Kinda found out my mom was a hooker that day? All the Santas I remembered coming to my house as a kid at Christmas turned out to be like...dudes my mom was sleeping with. For like. Money, and shit.” He slides a look at Doc, and he looks...a little sad. Not grossed out or shocked like Mac had been. He just looks Charlie in the eye, eyebrows drawn in, and Charlie lets out another big breath, easier this time.

God. He’s never just- _told_ anyone that. Talking about it makes him feel shaky and... _looked at,_ like he got caught doing something embarrassing on a stadium camera at hockey game or something, and bunch of people are suddenly judging him all at once.

“That must have been very difficult to deal with,” Doc says quietly. There’s no judgement in hiseyes, at least, which makes it way easier for Charlie to look back. A small lump forms in Charie's throat. He shouldn't have worried about that, not with Doc. “I’m sorry you had your childhood Christmas memories altered like that.”

“Yeah. It sucked,” Charlie agrees, voice a little weak. He clears his throat awkwardly, fingers loosening their claw-like grip on his shins. “It kinda explained why she didn't really work or leave the house, though. Anyway, I lost it on the first Santa I saw after that. But it never happened again, and I haven’t felt that kinda...batshit mad since then.” His mouth twists in discomfort. “I didn’t feel like that earlier, when that asshole pushed you, just regular mad.”

Doc nods slowly, taking a beat. “Thank you for telling me, Charlie,” he says, voice still low. “I understand how that can be hard to talk about, and I appreciate you trusting me enough to talk to me about it.”

“Yeah? Well.” Charlie shrugs, and shifts a little closer to Doc on the couch, shouldering towards him until his arm and legs bump Doc’s side. “You’re my friend, man. I didn’t think you’d like...judge me or anything, because you’re awesome like that.” He blinks and smiles a bit. “And you’re, like, my boyfriend and stuff. Aren’t boyfriends supposed to tell each other stuff like that all the time?”

“Not necessarily,” Doc says, smiling gently. “I care about you very much, Charlie. I want you to feel comfortable enough to talk to me about anything you want to, whether I’m your boyfriend or not. If there’s certain things you don’t like to discuss, I will do my best to respect your wishes.”

“I know. ‘Cuz you’re the best and the nicest dude alive,” Charlie says, and takes the opportunity to turn his face and press his cheek into Doc’s shoulder. The feeling of his sweater, warmed by the skin underneath, comforts Charlie more than anything. Doc presses a kiss to his hair and moves his arm to curl around Charlie’s back and rest at his hip, and it dispels the last bit of lingering anxiety itching beneath his skin.

There’s a moment where they just sit there, Charlie listening to Doc’s heart _thump_ steadily at his ear through soft, white cotton knit, before Doc breaks the silence. “But because you’re my boyfriend, and I feel comfortable being honest with you,” he says, voice low but plenty loud where Charlie is, snug below his chin, “I’m going to tell you why I didn’t like how you behaved towards that Neanderthal this morning.”

Charlie stiffens. _Oh shit._ He pulls back to look up at Doc, apprehension revving up his heartbeat like a foot on a gas pedal, and Doc lifts a hand to curve reassuringly at Charlie’s jaw.

“Don’t be upset, I’m not angry or disappointed or anything like that. I am simply telling you how I feel.” Charlie sucks in a breath, nervous but listening. “Alright. I don’t mind that you got angry, or really that you shouted at him, because to be quite honest, you yell even you’re happy and he deserved a good bollocking. But when you threatened him with violence, no matter whether or not you meant it, it made me feel very anxious.”

Doc’s expression clouds over, the edges of his mouth tight and turned down. “I never liked violence,” Doc says, his voice tense. Charlie's gut plummets at the sound of it. The calm he had earlier is gone, and it's back to that weird and cold tone from before in the car, except more uncertain than that. “Can’t really handle it, never could. I was bullied somewhat relentlessly in my early school years, and never was big enough to fight back. Not that I really wanted to, I watched my older brother do so and saw the trouble it got him in. He once wound up in hospital after a scrap with a few boys older than him. Ended up with a few bruised ribs, a black eye, and a permanent chip on his shoulder. Anyways,” he says, clearing his throat and shaking his head, “It reminds me of unhappy days. I’m not saying people shouldn’t defend themselves if they’re in danger, but I know what it’s like to be hurt. I don’t think violence is the solution in any way to any problem and it- it makes me feel...nervous. Frightened.”

Horror fills Charlie’s entire body, like a broken water pipe spilling filthy water across a bathroom floor. “I _scared_ you?” he says, mortified. “I was just yelling and shit, I didn’t-”

“I know. You didn’t. But you could have, and I certainly believed the threat that you would, and that’s what I mean. You were going to tackle that man running, I saw it on your face.”

Charlie rubs anxiously at his gristle, embarrassment and regret and confusion making him feel nauseated. He didn’t know that people could feel so nervous just about fights. The guys end up in fights pretty much every week, hell, Dee's attacked him tons of times, and sometimes _punching_ \-- or kicking and biting, depending on what's going down-- is the first instinct that hits him when someone gets in his face. Crazy shit happens to him so often, he's never stopped to think about whether that was  _bad_  or anything.

 _Shit. Doc thinks I beat people up._ And he isn’t even really _wrong,_ not completely, because Charlie’s definitely put the smackdown on people before, and before that even made him a little proud. But the shame that fills Charlie’s body at the idea of what _Doc_ thinks about that kinda makes him want to cry.

“Charlie,” Doc says, voice is more uncertain and nervous than before, like he’s worried Charlie won't react well. _Okay, deep breaths, dude,_ Charlie thinks to himself, _Doc looks he’s gonna freak, too, so chill._  “I’m not- I’m not upset with you-”

“I know, I’m just- I’m thinking,” Charlie says distractedly, patting at Doc’s shoulder before he can really get worked up, because he will if Charlie doesn’t say anything at all. “I didn’t- I don’t want to make you feel _scared_ of me, that makes me wanna puke. I just- I never thought of myself as somebody who could _be_ scary. I mean, I’m short and my voice is, _ugh,_ I mean, _Dee_ is scarier than me.” He sighs, frustrated. “But crazy shit happens to me so often, man. I probably do a lot of...threatening? And maybe that’s bad, but when somebody’s yelling at me or driving me crazy or comin’ at me I just kinda- blow up.”

“There are more ways than one to deal with anger, Charlie,” Doc says, the edges of his lips turned down. “But I’m not scared of you. I just get...worried.”

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie says, rolling his eyes a bit. Not because he's annoyed, not really, but because Doc  _does_ worry-- not as non-stop as his mom does, but because he doesn't like the idea of Charlie getting hurt. Which is pretty unlucky, because Charlie knows exactly how danger-prone he is. “You do that a lot. I mean, I was bleeding from gettin’ knifed in the head when we met up again, remember?”

Doc grimaces. “I recall.”

“Okay, so.” Charlie’s voice slows down a bit, halfway between amused and serious. He gets Doc being upset. He totally gets it. But Charlie doesn't think “just not getting mad” is something he can even _do._ “Like, I promise I won’t attack anybody for making me mad or lose it on a dude for pushing you, even if I really want to. But if a MacPoyle comes at me with a fuckin’ steak knife, man, I’m gonna react.”

Doc pales instantly. “I- Please tell me that’s not something that could happen.”

Charlie shrugs, because he definitely can’t promise that shit, and Doc looks genuinely ill.

“If you’re in danger and you cannot run away as _fast as you can,"_ Doc says, voice strangled, “than of course, I want you to defend yourself. God, the idea-”

“Dude, that wouldn’t be the most dangerous shit to happen to me, you know that.” Charlie starts to count on his fingers. “That serial killer dude, getting mugged, the MacPoyles, getting shot, getting hit by a car, getting electrocuted, getting drugged and getting locked in the basement-”

Doc puts his hands on his face. “Oh God, Charlie.” The arm he has coiled around Charlie moves to drag him practically on top of Doc’s lap, and presses him tightly into Doc’s chest. “You’re never leaving this bloody apartment. You’re staying right here with me, where it’s safe,” his voice drops to something almost like a growl, “ _away_ from those dangerous friends of yours, God help me.”

Charlie giggles. Doc getting all rumbly-- like he's tough or some shit-- is so cute it's hilarious, even if the worrywart part of Doc’s brain means it.

“I'm pretty tough, y'know. Don't worry so much.”

“I can't help it. The more I know you, the more I worry. It's a side effect of caring about you the way I that I do.” Doc sighs, and Charlie feels his chest rise and fall beneath him. It feels good. “I should have considered what you've gone through,” he says regretfully. “The danger you've experienced in your life, the people you encounter-- telling you not to fight back must sound so...self-righteous.”

Charlie makes a face. "Uh, I think I know what that means? You're not...that. You're a good guy. You don't want to see people get hurt, it makes sense, dude. I shouldn't get so worked up sometimes, I...just never really thought about it, I guess. Most people just get mad right back at me, so fights just...happen. M’sorry for getting so pissed off. Even though that asshole totally deserved it.”

“Thank you. For understanding,” Doc says quietly.

“I've got a short fuse, but I won't ever take it out on you, Doc, I promise.” The idea is so bad that Charlie immediately pushes the thought away. “Just hurting your feelings is the worst thing ever, man.”

“You haven't hurt my feelings,” Doc soothes. Charlie huffs in disagreement.

“Have too. I did today! Twice!”

“Not- not really,” Doc hedges, which Charlie's really started to pick up on as a tell for when Doc’s nervous, “not _intentionally,_ and you apologized immediately-”

“I don’t care, man. I want you to tell me that stuff, dude. If I’m being a dick. Or like...hurting your feelings, or whatever. Even if it's not a big deal, ‘cuz the idea of making you sad makes me wanna commit sudoku.”

A laugh belts out of Doc’s chest, sharp enough to make him bounce his left arm against his leg and wince. “Ow. Ow. Lord. Where did you even come up with- do you mean _seppuku?”_

“Yeah, dude, that thing where people fall on their swords and shit because they fucked up?” Charlie frowns in thought and sighs. “Aw, shit, sudoku that's that dumb math crossword, isn't it? Lame. Whatever, you knew what I meant. It's in the game  _Cards Against Humanity.”_ He’d played that game completely shit-faced a few months ago with the gang, and still barely understands some of the cards, but Mac getting super psyched about explaining samurai stuff like he actually knew shit and miming stabbing himself is pretty hard to forget.

“Seppuku is a little more serious than just falling on a sword, Charlie,” Doc says, amused. “And hurting my feelings hardly warrants something so dramatic. An apology works, though.”

“I don’t know man, this morning, when you thought I was mad we didn't go see the Waitress? Your face made me feel so guilty I literally wanted to set myself on fire.” Doc kinda snorts and covers his mouth with his right hand like he didn't mean to, and Charlie can’t hold back a smile, giggles working into his voice like bumps in a road. “Just saying, I’ll fuckin’ do it, so just tell me when I hurt your feelings so I don’t have to, alright?”

“Alright,” Doc concedes, giving Charlie’s hip a squeeze. He’s started doing that now too, probably because Charlie did it so much to him, and Charlie loves that somebody like Doc could pick up some little things from _him,_ too. “But only if you promise not to take it so hard if you do. You’re not perfect, Charlie, and neither am I. We’ll have disagreements sometimes. We'll misunderstand each other. Everyone does. What's important is that we talk to each other, especially when we're hurt or angry.”

Charlie sighs. Sounds simple enough, so simple it's cheesy. But he doesn’t know shit about relationships, and the guys and Dee yell at each other almost more than they actually talk, so he figures Doc has more experience with this kinda thing and nods. “Yeah, okay. Talking is fine, I guess.” He sighs, but turns when a flicker of mischief lights in his gut. He wriggles against Doc, taking care not to jostle him too much, and turns to run a hand up Doc’s chest. “You know what else is good for disagreements? Messing around, dude.”

Doc turns to him, a single eyebrow cocking up. _Ugh._ The sight is like lighter fluid on the fire crackling to life down Charlie’s spine. Doc's eyes flicker from his propped up wrist and back up to Charlie’s eyes, and he shifts his jaw like he's thinking about it. Charlie grins, seeing weakness, and leans forward to press his lips against the nape of Doc's neck, using a bit of teeth.

“I mean, unless your wrist hurts too much,” he teases, hand questing down towards Doc’s jeans. Doc makes a _great_ noise that vibrates right where he nips at Doc’s throat, which Charlie takes a good sign. One hand moves up and around to curl up in the Doc's hair, and the fingers of the other amble towards the fly of Doc’s jeans. Doc tips his head forward, eyes going dazed, as Charlie gives it a slow, leisurely tug down. Just the noise of the zipper sends a fever flood through Charlie's body. They need less clothes on, like, soon. Now.

“Maybe a little distraction will help,” Doc admits, gaze zeroing in and tone going low, and he takes Charlie’s smiling mouth in a kiss. Like always, Doc tastes like mint. Charlie doesn’t know how, but he loves it, loves it, loves it. He twists on the couch to maneuver Doc below him, hands lifting up Doc’s thighs to pull him all the way onto the couch and line up their hips. The feeling of being able to brush up against the whole stretch of Doc's body is just- crazy fucking good. And turns out, Charlie  _loves_ having Doc beneath him. Yeah, he likes being beneath him too-- Doc's tall and dark enough to make Charlie feel straight-up tingly-- but there’s something Charlie really, really digs about being able to bend and dip to kiss Doc wherever he wants, about being always able see Doc staring up at him and smiling and laughing and making those awesome faces of his.

Charlie thinks Doc likes it when he’s on top, too, because the dark of his eyes always go huge whenever he crawls his way over him, or pins him between his legs, and well. That’s pretty hot. _Doc’s_ pretty hot. He and Doc haven’t done _everything_ yet-- hardly, if Charlie’s recent porn searches are any clue-- but that’s okay. Charlie doesn’t think he’s ready for a lot of that stuff, anyway. Too much... _moving._

Anyways, he doesn't feel rushed to do anything different than what they've been doing, because making out with Doc is still pretty awesome. Slowly, though, he's getting braver. Asking to try more things in bed. Doc’s always into it, which helps a lot. There’s certain things Doc's said he doesn’t want to do until Charlie goes to the doctor, which Charlie gets, because if there’s a chance he’s got diseases or something from somebody or even from his mom or Frank’s genes, he doesn’t want Doc to get them, too. _That’s_ at least something he understands, thanks to TV and that one time when Dennis got crabs.

But today, there’s something he really wants to try. It kinda scares him shitless, but he wants to give it a shot. Mostly because the idea of doing it well with Doc sounds _super_ hot. So. He’s gonna go for it.

He sucks in a shaky breath, leaning back from a kiss, and carefully, slowly scoots back on the couch down Doc’s body. Doc watches him with confused interest, and Charlie smiles nervously, heart beating like a hummingbird's wings.

“I, uh.” He swallows. He’s learned from Doc to always ask before doing something, even if the answer seems obvious. “I wanna try something, Doc.”

He continues to back up, until his hands are braced on both sides of Doc’s waist and his chin hovers over Doc’s fly.

Doc stares, and his mouth falls open. The blacks of his eyes are _insane._ Charlie feels a bit of a boost to his confidence, seeing Doc look at him like that. _Nice._

“Charlie,” Doc croaks, like he just got the wind knocked out of him. Charlie can't help a quivery smile. “I- are you _sure?_ That’s- that’s quite a large step if you haven’t done it before.”

“I wanna,” Charlie says, voice trembling. But only a little. He's- he's got this. “I’m nervous, yeah, but that’s because. Um. I’m nervous, but not because I don’t wanna do it. I _want_ to. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

Doc swallows visibly, throat working. “You have?” Charlie nods, and Doc’s face burns pink. “Well- I- I don’t mind.” A wired, slightly hysterical chuckle tumbles out of Doc’s mouth. “But only if you’re absolutely sure. This is _not_ something you should feel you have to do. Not- not at all. I completely understand if you decide you don’t want to, even- even after you’ve started, alright?”

“Okay. I don’t feel like I have to do it, though. I just. _W_ _ant_ to. Okay?”

Doc sucks in a shaky breath. “I...Alright. Would you- do you want me to-”

Charlie flushes. “Maybe you can...talk me through it? I’ve seen a lot of porn, though. And Googled a bit.”

“I- I see,” Doc stammers. Charlie notices a significant level of interest in Doc’s pants, and fights a crazy grin. _Oh shit_ , he thinks. _Doc’s_ so _into this_. He’s kind of into it already, too, heart pounding, hands sweaty. “Okay. Just- do what feels right. No- no pressure. I’ll- I’ll do my best to give you pointers.”

Charlie, feeling another wild burst of confidence, smirks. “‘Kay. But if talking gets too hard, I get it.”

Doc gawks at him, but then his eyes narrow, mouth curving sharper than glass. “ _Cheeky,”_ Doc says, voice a low rumble, and heat rolls like thunder throughout Charlie’s entire body.

“Oh my God,” Charlie says. “You’re so hot, dude. I _have_ to blow you now.”

Doc tosses his head back and laughs. Then Charlie does.

* * * 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> charlie's learned he's a top and doc's thrilled asdgkfjdk;h
> 
> i hope this wasn't the biggest hot mess you've ever read, bc i struggled with this chapter a lot. charlie and doc are really taking shape in my mind, and that makes channeling their voices more of a challenge as they become more defined by what's transpired so far in the series. :)
> 
> @ravelqueen, i hope this is good enough for your ask lmao i'm sorry it took twenty years


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doc gets a phone call. (Post-11x01, "Chardee Macdennis 2: Electric Boogaloo")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see babes, sorry for the delay but i'm back at uni and my life's busy af, but still here, still crazy for this series, so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do. thanks so much for the continued support, i love this fandom so much. <3
> 
> this chappie's a Doc POV, kinda dialogue-heavy, and 1000% tropey wish fulfillment, so have fun asjdfdsfsd
> 
> cw: this chapter contains Frank being himself (i.e., anti-Semitic and generally shitty)

**2.**

_11:25 A.M. on a Monday, Philadelphia, PA_

Calvin has only five minutes left in his morning lecture when he gets the text.

Normally, he wouldn’t dare check his mobile in class-- he considers it a poor precedent for already-distracted students-- but he has just wrapped up his discussion on the biology of stereocilia, and the text, he knows, is from Charlie. He knows because he recognizes the distinct vibration of his mobile from within his messenger bag, even where he stands across the room at the lecture hall’s podium: two slow thrums, the ‘heartbeat’ vibration pattern. (Not to be completely sappy, of course, but to mark Charlie’s messages apart from the standard single buzz of a notification and the excessive rhythm of three. Of course.)

The point is, it’s Charlie who texted him, and so he’s tempted.

Regardless of whatever example it might set, he cannot deny the interest that sparks in him at the sound of it, nor the fond lift within his ribcage at the thought of its sender. One might have thought that the rose-tinted novelty of dating Charlie would have faded by now, at least to some reasonable degree, but one would be wrong. It has been nearly two months since the night Charlie first kissed him and hurtled their relationship to a higher level-- hardly a blink as far as Calvin’s concerned, but long enough that the mental association of Charlie with the role of ‘boyfriend’ has become natural rather than dazed-- and yet, every text, kiss, and date stubbornly feels like the first. Sweet, thrilling, each touch electrifying his nerves in a way that would be embarrassing if it weren’t so delightful.

 _And now I’m a poet,_ he thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his unsuspecting class. But it’s hardly his fault, is it? Charlie has an uncanny ability for making him feel like a teenager again: awkward and foolish and completely besotted. If any of his family or friends could see him now, climbing cloud nine over the _concept_ of a few text messages, they’d never let him hear the end of it. But the heart of it is that he honestly feels...happy. Happier than he can recall being in ages, really. The resounding total impact of Charlie on his life aside, he could have never anticipated that being in a _relationship_ again would have brightened his days so significantly.

More significantly than he ever realized, in retrospect. Having someone to think about, someone to spend time with often-- simply connecting with Charlie has swept away a quiet loneliness he only now recognizes, marking a definitive shift in his life with the knife incident on one side, and the Amici dinner on the other. And as for Charlie himself, well. Charlie is _Charlie_. Wonderful. Funny. Strange and eccentric, brimming with charms that he feels he’s only beginning to discover. It seems with every day, his affection for Charlie can only grow. Soon he will run out of room in his body to store it all, and burst apart in an explosion of warm feeling and tender, tattered scraps.

Realizing that, however...is not without its complications. Not because of Charlie himself, but because-- well. Lots of damn reasons. For one, that sort of soul-bearing honesty could wind him in hot water if he's not careful. Take with his family, for instance. He can never, under any circumstances, enunciate feeling as much to them, not so soon. He _cannot_ tell his mother. Or his sister, for that matter. Or his mother’s sisters. Or his cousin Anna, either, actually-- long story short, none of the women in his life are permitted to learn how arse-over-teakettle he’s become, _none_. No one else even _knows_ about Charlie yet, save Samira, and she only knows because she guessed, he tells her everything, and because her sabbatical won't be over for another four months (so she can't meddle).

The reason for his secrecy isn't shame. Far from it; he’ll defend Charlie until he's hoarse. Their relationship might be relatively new, but he’s been acquainted with Charlie for months now, and in getting to know Charlie, he’s learned...some remarkable things about his character and his life. He’s come to terms with some things, talked out others, and...dropped certain subjects, upon Charlie’s request. And that’s fine. Charlie is not a child, and he’s not impaired. He’s- well, he’s lovely, is what he is. Curious and loud and sweet. Energetic and vulgar, and very, very funny, as well as _increasingly_ brilliant in bed. Calvin is mad about him. He’ll admit to a certain tension sometimes, waiting around for the next curveball when it comes to Charlie’s habits and history, but the good always outweighs any...speed bumps they encounter.

So, no, the problem is not Charlie, nor the prospect of explaining their relationship to anyone who feels particularly inclined to question it. It's the notorious romanticism of the Emory clan he fears. Their lethal attentions, when leveled on someone unsuspecting. Someone like himself, for example. Or, much worse, and much more likely, Charlie. It's not that they’re matchmakers, per se, or even that they’re obsessive over his love life: it’s merely that since secondary school they’ve considered themselves his personal cheerleaders (and if necessary, his gladiators) when it comes to his partners, and so have a habit of being...overwhelming. He can only pray that by the time they all learn the truth, he’ll have figured out how to introduce them to Charlie when they come round for New Year’s without major incident. His entire family had almost thrown a bloody riot and come stateside when his last relationship went up in flames, and he is _not_ looking forward to their calculating minds locking target on Charlie.

Shifting impatiently as his students finish transcribing the lecture notes projected on the wall behind him, Calvin waffles at his place on the podium. He wants to check his mobile. Badly. _Class_ is _all but over,_ he reasons. It can’t hurt to finish it up a little early, just the once.

He’s kidding himself and knows it, but it’s too late, the battle’s lost, he’s caved. In his soul, he’s a weak man, with no self-restraint to speak of. And Charlie’s influence, by no fault of his own, has a way of inspiring its own brand of impulsiveness.

Clearing his throat pointedly, he clicks to the last slide of his presentation with the week’s homework. “That is all of the new material we had to cover for today,” he says, to a room full of students with eyes glued to their laptops. “So I’m going to wrap up class here.” All of those eyes flick up, attentive _now,_ and Calvin swallows a smile. “This week’s assignment will cover material from chapters eight and nine-” He lifts his voice to be heard over the immediate shuffling of papers and books now that he’s announced class done, “-And as always, my office hours are Wednesdays from three to six, and I’m available by email any time to discuss any questions you may have.”

As students pile down the hall’s stacked steps in a swiftly departing stream, he moves over to his desk in the corner of the room. Sliding a hand into the front leather pocket, he eases out the phone and taps the waiting message box, already fighting a small smile despite himself.

Charlie is working-- well, he is _at_ work-- and last he texted, he’d begun some sort of original board game with those ludicrous friends of his. Calvin hardly approves of any of Charlie’s friends, considering their insane behavior the last time he encountered them and their frankly infuriating treatment of Charlie in general, but he knows there is little to be done about it. Well, he knows in the sense that he constantly reminds himself as much. He understands that most of Charlie’s life revolves around his friends’ shenanigans and their pub. Truly, he does. Charlie works with them, co-owns Paddy’s with them, lives with one of them-- from what he understands, Charlie has no other people he considers truly significant in his life. They _matter_ to him. He will never tell Charlie to dismiss his only friends, no matter how he feels about them personally, because he refuses to be the sort of person who insists on controlling the life and friendships of his partner. To do so would be cruel. Manipulative. Inconsiderate, and most of all, selfish.

And to be fair, he has only met the lot of them once-- however disastrous that introduction had been-- and as to the validity of the testimonials he’s heard of their behavior, he knows that Charlie has a certain tendency to embellish.

Well. In this case, he hopes as much. Charlie _is_ a vivid storyteller. It’s something Calvin adores about him.

Anyways, Charlie’s friendships are not worth thinking over, because they’re nothing he has the right to dictate. No matter how Calvin dislikes his friends, no matter how forgiving Charlie is of their transgressions and insults, and no matter how _very often_ he fantasizes of Charlie finding kinder, safer, more considerate people to spend his time with...There’s nothing to be done about it. Charlie’s friends are not going anywhere, and because he cares for Charlie, he’s going to be glad they’re in his life. That’s the end of it.

However. That doesn’t mean he trusts them. Not as far as he can _throw_ them.

Speaking of.

The message from Charlie is not what he expects it to be.

:: ‘ _Sup loser ur boyfriend’s at the hospital’ ::_

His stomach drops like a safe from an aeroplane. Heart thundering, he stabs a button to prompt a call, but another short text interrupts him, the mobile pulsing twice in his hands.

_:: he’s not dying or anythnig  ::_

_:: so don’t freak out, bitch  ::_

The relief that fills him at those words is tremendous, sending him weak-kneed. Sucking down a breath, he starts to text back, demanding details, when the mobile buzzes once, twice more.

:: _the college hospital. jefferson  ::_

_:: it’s all frank’s fault and he’s not here so don’t bring ur umbrella ok ::_

Calvin grabs his bag, pockets the phone, and leaves the lecture hall at a near _run._

* * *

Traffic, through some miracle, is not its usual nightmare as he speeds towards center city. He parks in the first spot he sees and jogs into the ER entrance with worry drowning his every thought, reaching the front desk out of breath. _Not dying,_ the text had said, _but that could mean anything, Charlie could be_ comatose _for Christ’s sakes--_

“Hello, yes, can- can you please direct me to the room of Charlie Kelly?”

There’s a beat where the receptionist just levels a look at him, expression flat and unimpressed with his urgency, that he’s petrified he’ll be denied as a visitor. After all, Charlie’s only his boyfriend: they’re hardly married and it’s not as if he’s listed as a medical contact. _So I’ll lie_ , he decides, lightning-fast, panic kicking up adrenaline in his veins, _we’ve been married two years and change_ , and if they aren’t allowing any visitors but family, well, he’ll claim bloody siblinghood if he has to, he was adopted and his accent doesn’t matter a damn if they ask, and- and if no one’s allowed at all, then Charlie’s condition could be serious which, then- _oh, God_ -

“Charlie Kelly, you said?” the receptionist asks. She taps a bit at her desk computer and sighs. “Right. Oh, _that_ one. He’s fine.” Calvin’s shoulders slump, all the fear spilling out of him to leave him immediately boneless. “We’re keeping him overnight for observation. Room three twelve.”

“Thank you,” he says, with great feeling. The pounding in his ribcage gives up the race, settling back down to a more sustainable beat. All the same, his pace is quick as he finds his way to an elevator-- too jittery to pop up the stairs-- and he takes the stretched moments on the way up to collect himself and restore the oxygen to his needy lungs. Then he’s out the elevator, down the hallway, and cruising through the door marked 312.

He’s barely got a foot in before he’s frozen, staring.

Charlie’s lying in a hospital bed, wrapped in a blanket, his skin washed out and pale underneath a blue polka-dotted patient’s gown. He’s awake and upright, hale as far as Calvin can see, and that’s a greater relief than he can put into words. However, it’s the expression on Charlie’s face that’s taken hold of him, along with, equally, the unholy screaming that has begun in the corner of the room.

Two of Charlie’s preposterous friends, the creepy one and the blonde woman, are howling like banshees at the foot of Charlie’s bedside. There is an actual _fire_ on the floor, being stomped out viciously by their feet, and they look _demented,_ arms bent akimbo, mouths wrenched open screeching “ _yeah”_ and the word “ _loser”,_ and Charlie? Charlie’s _crying._ There are _tears_ rolling down his face, and he’s looking at his insane friends like he’s watching a funeral, and it’s _too much._

“ _What’s going on here?!_ ”

The thunder in his voice booms loudly enough to take even himself by surprise, but it’s somewhat vindicating when Charlie’s companions stop and stare, and something a little more than that when Charlie turns to look at him.

“Doc,” Charlie croaks, eyes glimmering. He lifts an IV-d arm to swipe at his eyes, and even though it feels like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone, Calvin still feels his heart shift at the sight of him.

“Ohhh, shit,” the woman says, eyes stretching wide. “We’re in trouble.”

The other mutters to her under his breath before lifting his hands and plastering on a smile. A forced chuckle spills out of his mouth, his gaze darting nervously up and back again to the smoking effigy on the floor beneath his feet.

“Uh, _hey,_ Science Bitch, what’s up? How’s it- uh, how’s it goin’, dude? This- this isn’t what it looks like, me and Dee were just trying to cheer up ol’ Charlie here-”

Calvin steps into the room only to point a finger directly out of it. “ _Leave,_ ” he orders, in a tone that brooks no argument. He doesn’t understand a damn thing that’s going on right now but Charlie is in actual tears, in a hospital bed, and if even though he’s not sure how, he’s _certain_ these maniacs are in some part responsible for it. If they don’t leave immediately, and with haste, he’s going to have _words._

“Whoaaa, buddy, I was the one who texted you!” The woman, Dee, says, with a tone as equally false and jovial as the man’s beside her. “I mean, you’re _welcome_. This- this is just a game, this, uh, fire thing, don’t even worry about it, we were just finishing up for Charlie because he was stuck here-”

“Oh, oh, is that what you were doing? Really?” Charlie demands, voice a tear-thick, shredded mess, and Calvin clenches his jaw.

“You will get out before I tell security you lit a fire in a hospital room,” he snaps. “ _Go.”_

The woman gapes at him. “Are you shitting me right now? I did you a _favor,_ asshole-”

Calvin wordlessly raises a hand to the fire alarm.

“Okay, okay!” the man shouts, throwing up his hands. “Jesus Christ, we’re going! Right, Dee? We’re going.” He keeps both hands aloft in deference as they move across the room and inch past, wearing a recalcitrant expression that Calvin finds utterly unconvincing.

“Have a good one, d-bag,” Dee says as she walks by him, and when he raises an eyebrow at her, she hustles away with remarkable speed. Once they’re gone, Calvin shuts the door promptly behind them and pivots on a heel.

“Charlie,” he says. The name leaves his mouth mournful. “How did this _happen?_ ”

Charlie just stares at him for a second, eyes wide and glassy, before his face collapses in on itself like a sand castle.

“I don’t _know,_ ” he says, burying his head in his hands. Calvin’s moving before he knows it, hands drawn like magnets to Charlie’s quivering shoulders to draw him close.

“Charlie, Charlie, darling, it’s alright.” Charlie is bawling openly, bent over himself to lean into Calvin's shoulder, and listening to him cry beneath heavy, toneless beeps of his heart monitor, he feels his bewilderment from moments before transform into ache. He’s never seen Charlie so upset. He can’t imagine what must have happened to cause it.

“C’mon, then, it’s alright,” he says gently, sitting down at Charlie’s bedside to wrap him in his arms proper. He cards a hand soothingly through Charlie’s mussed hair. “Deep breaths. Tell us what happened.”

“W-We were just playing Chardee MacDennis,” Charlie hiccups, voice cracking like aluminum foil in his distress. “There was a challenge with laxatives and Frank gave us some but- it was actually, like, _liquid sleeping pills!_ ”

Doc feels the ground fall through beneath him, blood departing from his face so quickly he feels a chill _._

“ _What?_ ” Disbelief hits him like a freight train, robbing his thoughts of sense. “Sleep- _sleeping_ medication? I don’t- Frank _drugged_ you?”

“Y-Yeah,” Charlie says, the word wobbling. He drops his hands from his face to look up, green eyes red and watery, and quite suddenly, the anguish on his face abates, the trembling in his voice leveling out to become almost conversational. “It was pretty strong stuff, I think I’m still feeling it a little. I actually woke up feeling pretty good, but-” Charlie’s voice thickens in equally sudden despair, chin wrinkling. “But _now_ I can’t stop _crying!”_ Charlie makes an ludicrous, devastated noise before burying his face into Calvin’s shoulder, sobbing anew.

 _Oh, Lord,_ Calvin realizes, sighing. “You’re high,” he says, relieved at least to have an explanation for Charlie’s inconsolable weeping.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” Charlie blubbers into his jacket, fists clenching the fabric as if in attempt to keep him there. “I didn’t know it was that, or I wouldn’t have taken it! I didn’t _try_ to get high, I swear!”

“No, no, no,” Calvin says, quick to reassure before Charlie begins crying again in earnest. “I’m not angry with you, Charlie, I- Look at me.” He leans back away from Charlie’s face to tip up his jaw with a crooked finger, leveling Charlie’s gaze with his. He moves to thumb Charlie’s tears away, smearing at salty tear tracks until they’re gone. “I’m not angry at you, I promise. I’m angry with Frank, and with your friends for coming in here and making you so upset. I’m relieved you’re alright. I was- _so_ worried when I heard you were hurt, I drove like a mad man to get here.”

“You did?” Charlie straightens up, sniffing. Already, his melancholy has vanished, face transformed into cheerful surprise. “You were worried about me?”

Calvin sighs and smiles. “Of course I was. You ridiculous man.”

Charlie’s mouth stretches into a grin. “You’re _such_ a worry-wart, dude. A worry _sponge._ ” He tips forward unsteadily, like a sapling in a stiff breeze, and pokes a finger at Calvin’s chest. “That makes sooo much sense. Sponges soak up lots of stuff. Your brain soaks up, like, everything, so you’re a genius, but also, like, _stressed._ That’s okay, though.” His voice drops low, like he’s sharing a secret. “I like sponges. And you.”

Calvin chuckles. “Mmm. I like you too,” he says fondly, shaking his head. Charlie’s answering grin is dazed and sloppy, and unfairly charming. This is a serious situation, but without really trying, Charlie’s managed to make him feel nothing ever happened-- calm, at ease, heart warmed with amusement.

Catching sight of the bandages on Charlie’s arm, though, jerks him quickly back down to planet Earth. Frowning, he leans forward to brush his fingers against soft gauze.

“How did this happen, then?” he asks. He takes care to keep his voice gentle, but the anxiety knotted in his stomach gives his tone a heavy weight.

“Hm? Oh, shit, I almost forgot about that. That’s nothing, don’t stress, babe.” Charlie stops short, face wrinkling in distaste. “Ugh, I don’t know where that came from, that sounded weird. You’re not a babe. I mean! You are, totally-- like, you’re _way_ hot! But- that word doesn’t fit. I can do better.”

“Normally, that kind of flattery would get you anywhere,” Calvin says (and it’s true, he can already feel his cheeks warming in a flush), “but I still want to know what happened. Did you fall? Cut yourself?” Even saying as much makes Calvin’s stomach turn. He prays that it happened before Charlie was drugged, because if it happened _after, because_ of, then he might just-

“Uhhh, that’s kind of a long story,” Charlie says, nose scrunching. Slowly, he’s beginning to sound more like himself, and the drug-addled glaze in his eyes has begun to lose its lustre. “It’s why I ended up in the hospital in the first place, actually, not ‘cause Frank gave me that liquid shit. I could’ve handled that stuff no problem if I hadn't been wasted too-”

“Your _arm_ is why you’re here?” Calvin observes the gauze on Charlie’s forearm with intent, taking in the spread of the bandages. It’s pretty thick, almost covering half of his arm, but he’d thought it before just a thorough job by the nursing staff. His gut twists at the idea of Charlie bleeding, and he can’t help but shift uneasily on the hospital bed, dread building. He moves a hand to encircle one of Charlie’s wrists, grounding himself. “Charlie. Tell me everything, please.”

Charlie, not too indisposed to miss the tone in his voice, visibly deflates. “You’re gonna think it’s the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard,” he says miserably, free hand fussing restlessly with the hem of his blanket. “Seriously, dude. You’re gonna hear it and think it’s so stupid that you’ll probably just- _dump_ me.”

Calvin’s reaction is immediate and vehement. “I will _not,_ ” he says, and with his other hand, reaches up to snag Charlie by the chin. Charlie’s eyes go wide in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. “Listen. I’m telling you this so you understand. Charlie. I care about you very much. You know this.” Calvin pauses meaningfully, lifting his eyebrows up, and Charlie slowly nods in agreement under Calvin’s fingers. He drops his grip, hand moving upwards to rest against Charlie’s gristle-rough cheek. “I never want you to keep things from me because you think I won’t want to hear it. I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t talk to me, because you’re afraid I’ll judge you. I will _always_ want you to be honest with me.” His heart tugs sharply in his chest, in memory, in warning. He ignores it. Charlie is different. Charlie won’t. “And you know exactly what I think about you calling yourself stupid. You’re not, and I won’t think you are, not ever. Alright?”

“...Okay,” Charlie says. His voice is small, and his eyes are glittery. _God help us both,_ Calvin thinks, foolish, heart clenching, because of course, he ended up falling for someone just as bloody emotional as he is. He’s always known how dramatic he could be, but Charlie is a different level altogether, with no filter at all for his feelings. His emotions simply manifest and tide from him, in waves of joy or sorrow or frustration, a trait that Calvin loves. Calvin loves _so much_ about him.

“‘Dump you’,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Honestly, the things you believe me capable of.” He leans forward, close enough to press his lips to the crest of Charlie’s left cheekbone. “Do you really think I’d do such a thing? That my feelings for you are so shallow?”

Charlie turns his head to plant his face into the nape of his neck, freeing his wrist from Calvin’s grip to curl his arm like a snake around Calvin’s bicep. “No,” he mumbles, voice chagrined. He swallows hard, so close that Calvin can feel the muscles in Charlie’s throat contract against his skin. “M’sorry. I know you’re not an asshole. I know you wouldn’t dump me just because I fucked up or whatever. You’re the nicest dude on the planet. Obviously. I’m just-” Charlie grumbles non-verbally to himself, dark eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t know, dude. _I_ know what I did was dumb, because I wish I hadn’t done it. I don’t want you to look at me different after I tell you. Not because you’ll think I’m stupid,” Charlie revises quickly, looking up to see the expression on Doc’s face, “but because. I don’t know. Because it was dumb and embarrassing and shit, okay?”

Calvin sighs in relief. “I see,” he says. He overreacted, he realizes. Charlie wasn’t trying to hide anything. It’s not that Charlie doesn’t trust him. He’s only embarrassed. _Clearly,_ he thinks, chastising himself. He can’t project his insecurities like this. Knowing the both of them, it’ll only end in painful misunderstandings.

Charlie leans back, twisting his torso to sag back onto his bed pillow. “Okay. So, the thing is...” He sighs, avoiding Calvin’s gaze. “I kinda cut my arm myself?”

Calvin does his best not to stiffen at the news. “...Yourself?” he asks, tense.

“Chill, okay, don’t freak, let me explain,” Charlie says, waving a hand at him. “Okay. Chardee Macdennis. It’s a game me and the guys made up, I told you about it. Earlier we were all playing it, and this dude Frank knows just shows up at the bar, and he’s like, ‘Yo, I’m from Mattel! I wanna buy the rights to your game idea!’-- _I know,_ right?-- and we were like, shit, dude, awesome, let’s sell it to him, man! So we all start playing the game, and we finally get to this round with a challenge that says we gotta take some chocolax or whatever, and see who has to go the bathroom first. Yeah, I know, it’s dumb, but it’s goddamn funny, man, and we’ve done before, so it was whatever. But then Frank’s all fucking like, ‘here’s some laxative I got, it’s liquid and shit!’ so we’re like, okay, whatever, and we took it. And turns out it fucking _wasn’t,_ actually, _laxative,_ it was some goddamn liquid sleep shit that probably isn’t even legal, so we all passed out! I almost brained myself on a bar stool!”

“Oh, God,” Calvin says, closing his eyes and kneading the bridge of his nose. It’s so preposterous that it’s _unbearable._ He cannot believe-- laxative as a gag is one thing, but dosing unsuspecting people, people one's supposed to  _care about,_  with narcotics? It’s despicable. Charlie  _lives_ with this man. From what he's heard, there's a possibility this man is even his biological  _father._ How could this have happened? How could he possibly have done this?

“Dude, I know, but before you freak out that’s not really the worst part,” Charlie says, his face apologetic but his voice swept up in the energy of storytelling. “So, like, later we all wake up in the basement of the bar. I have _no_ idea how Frank got us all down there, dude, but he did it, and it’s like- he made it all like a part of the game? He wanted us to do a fucking _horror_ challenge, because that’s the stage he wanted to add to the game, right, but we all thought it was stupid. Anyway, so we’re all in the basement, and I shit you not, he’d chained us to the wall and turned off the lights, literally like fucking _Saw,_ dude. He said the only way to get out was to take these fuckin’ tweezers he had jacked up to a car battery, and like, dig a key out of our arms. So. Uh. I was pretty out of it and kinda freaked and so...I tried?”

Charlie pauses, dropping the arms he had been moving to illustrate his story and glancing at him for a reaction.

Calvin doesn’t have much of one. His face, his body, feels paralyzed. A thought comes and goes telling him he’s going to be sick.

His expression must not be a winning one, because as Charlie continues, cheeks turning red, his voice strains with anxiety. “Uh. After that, uh. The guys wanted to keep playing? By then I was bleeding a lot and wanted to quit because I just, like, _knew_ you were gonna freak when you heard what happened, but they really wanted to keep playing so I tried to win the humiliation round so I could like, get them to call an ambulance faster, and I _swear_ I did but then I like, passed out from blood loss and woke up here. That’s why Dennis and Dee were, uh, screaming earlier? They were doing a victory dance and, uh. Burning my game piece.” Charlie sighs and wilts, eyes casting downwards. “They weren’t actually here because they were worried about me or anything. Which is like. I don’t know. Typical of them, I guess.”

He can’t find his voice. He doesn’t know what to say. He- Charlie had- he’d been-

“Doc,” Charlie says. His voice is fraught with nerves. “I’m- I’m _sorry_. I didn’t even- I’d just woken up and I was feelin’, you know-- I didn’t even think about Frank lying about it or it being stupid, I didn’t even really feel that much pain and shit, because I...Doc. Say something. Please, dude, I’m gonna freak out.”

Calvin closes his eyes. He can’t erase the image of Charlie, mentally compromised, cutting into his own skin. It’s- it’s horrifying. Nightmarish. It feels like panic trickling down his neck, ice water, pumping through his body. Charlie in the dark, _chained,_ bleeding, high-- he can’t- how could-

He sucks in a breath. Counts to five. Lets it go. Opens his eyes, replacing the image in his mind with the sight of Charlie in front of him, looking terrified of what he’s going to say. Does he _know_ what he’s going to say? Can he even think of the words?

Yes.

“Charlie,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

A beat, and the petrified expression on Charlie's face turns shakily into wonder.

“...It’s not?” Another beat, and his chin wrinkles with emotion. “ _Dude."_

“I mean it,” Calvin insists, voice stern, “None of this is your-”

Charlie flings out a hand, grabs his collar, and hauls him in. His lips are soft but insistent, claiming his mouth with intent when they connect. Heat ignites and curls in Calvin’s abdomen, spiraling up his spine as he returns the kiss in earnest, and Charlie grips him tightly, hand raking up through his hair, his thin-smocked chest pressing close. He tastes like toothpaste and liquor, strangely sharp, minty, bitter. Heady. Distantly, he recognizes the background tempo of Charlie’s heart monitor going double time, but Charlie’s tongue captures most of his attention, where it traces along the inside of his lip. Charlie and that _gift_ of his-

Charlie pulls back, leaving him breathless like he always does. The edges of Calvin’s mouth already burn and tingle from the friction of Charlie’s beard.

“I know you mean it, man,” Charlie says. His voice catches in his throat, chest heaving lightly as he visibly returns oxygen to his lungs. “It’s why you’re the best. I keep forgetting, but you keep reminding me. You're awesome, dude.”

He leans in again, before Calvin can even think to say a word to that, and kisses him once more, long and deep. Quiet, easy thrill spills across his skin, magnetic charge buzzing to life wherever Charlie touches him. It's intoxicating. Even now, in this moment, his heart has only room for fondness.

“You might not think that for long,” Calvin finally says, after pulling away for a second time. His heart is thudding hard in his chest, throat tight with affection. “After I have words with your friends, I mean.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re gonna talk to the guys? _Why?_ ”

“There are _several_ things I plan to bring up with them,” Calvin says lowly. _Many,_ he thinks, vengefully. “First and foremost, that until you are completely healed up, you are going to be staying with me at my apartment. Indefinitely.” Charlie’s jaw swings open, and Calvin cuts him off before he can speak. “ _No_ arguments. You are _not_ staying with a man who drugged you and coerced you to _cut_ yourself, and that is _final._ ”

Charlie’s cheeks burn sunset red. “Uh. Okay.” He doesn't protest further, which is both a relief, and privately, a quiet thrill. The prospect of Charlie living with him should be infinitely more frightening than it is now, but currently, his priority is getting Charlie somewhere safe.

“Good. And I’m also going to speak with those other friends of yours. Dennis and Dee, the ridiculous screaming ones. And that _Mac._ ” Boiling anger drags his voice down to a seethe. "Asking you to continue playing some game when you're _hurt?_ Putting off the hospital until you collapse? Taunting you at your bedside until you're in _tears?”_

He realizes, caught mid-rant, that Charlie is staring at him. “Holy shit, dude,” Charlie whispers, eyes wide. “You're really pissed.”

“I'm _infuriated,_ ” Calvin clarifies, at a growl. Proper rage is rolling through him unchecked. The shock of hearing the story has faded and left him heated, itching for what can only be retribution. It’s a sensation he’s never felt with such suddenness before, and the best word to describe it can only be _volcanic._

“Uh. Wow.” Charlie is looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face. He may have overstepped his bounds, Calvin realizes, and the thought takes a bucket of a water to the fire of his anger.

“Charlie...”

“Dude,” Charlie interrupts. “When you go talk to the guys...I wanna be there.”

Concern and embarrassment filter through him. _Now is hardly the right time to lecture Charlie on his choice of friends,_ he scolds himself.“I- if it really makes you uncomfortable, I don't have to speak to them. I didn't think-”

“Dude, no, I didn't mean that,” Charlie says, cutting him off once more. “I wanna _watch.”_

Calvin blinks at him, and the curve of Charlie’s mouth turns cheeky. “You're super hot right now, dude,” he explains, and heat floods Calvin's face. “Your, like, growly voice? It's crazy hot, man. Last time you saw the guys you kicked their asses with your umbrella and it was the hottest, most badass shit I've ever seen and- dude, I'm serious! I can't miss out if you go to Paddy's after this and like, make Dennis and Dee cry. I _need_ to see that shit, they were such dicks today!”

“Unfortunately, darling,” Calvin says, failing at fighting a grin and a blush both. He's never been called ‘hot’ so many times in a row. “You're staying overnight for observation. _Doctor's orders,”_ he emphasizes, when Charlie lets out a whine, “and to be honest, I'm not sure this is something you should have to witness. I've been told my temper, rare as it is, can be...erhm. Intense, when provoked.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Charlie moans, throwing his head back onto the pillow with a _flump_. “That's not even fair, man. I should get to see you intense, that’s like...a major thing I get to have. A boyfriend requirement. You can’t like, _deprive_ me, dude.”

Calvin's cheeks are on fire at this point, and he can't help but laugh. “You aren’t going to be _deprived_ of anything,” he says, amused, and leans into press a brief kiss against Charlie’s jaw. “Ridiculous man.”

“Record it on your phone then! No, for real _,_ you _have_ to, I need to see it-”

“I'm not going to _record_ myself launching a tirade against your friends-”

“Whyyyyy? You're gonna kick their asses and I wanna see because they deserve it after the shit they pulled today! And if you're gonna be ‘intense’, dude, then shit, I _totally_ gotta see _-_ ”

“I said intense because I'll likely be _shouting_ at them, not growling like some animal-”

“Dude, both of those things are hot, either is good! Shouting and growling and making the guys cry, I'm gonna lose my mind, man! Please, Doc, you gotta show me somehow, I'm in the hospital and everything. Watching it will probably be so awesome I'll like, be healed or something, don’t I get like, injured boyfriend privileges? That's a thing!”

“ _Charlie,_ ” he says, through an impossible grin. “I'm not going to record myself bollocking your friends. But...” He pauses, watching the interest glint in Charlie's eyes, and mischief coils within him like a snake beneath a heat lamp. “I suppose you have gone through quite an ordeal, haven't you? And as your partner, I am expected to cater to my injured, bedridden boyfriend...”

“Uh huh,” Charlie says, nodding eagerly. “I need lots of catering, dude, like, all over. I was bleeding, got drugged, got an IV and stuff... I've got injured boyfriend points out the ass.”

Calvin bites down on a bark of laughter. “Well, I suppose a trip to the apartment for my laptop and some clothes for you wouldn't be remiss. So that when visiting hours end, you can watch some movies while I'm gone.” Charlie rolls his eyes, underwhelmed, and Calvin smirks, leaning close.

“And then when we're home,” he says, voice low against the shell of Charlie's ear. “I'll do my best to show you some of the intensity you're looking for.”

Charlie shivers wonderfully, giggles tumbling from his mouth. “Oh, shit. Holy shit, okay. Jesus Christ.” He tugs theatrically at the collar of his hospital gown, beet red, grinning wide. “You're gonna break my heart monitor, dude.”

Calvin's heart warms like a candle within his chest. “You say the most romantic things,” he says, voice teasing and earnest both.

Charlie rolls his polka-dotted shoulders in a shrug. “Yeah, well,” he says, with a proud little smile, “It's not that hard when you're so great, dude.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he replies, feeling as though he may split at the seams with affection. _Whatever will I do with this man?_ he wonders, without want of an answer. Despite the easy yearning clouding his mind, a thought occurs, bringing forth a sigh.

“Now that I know you’re alright, I’m think it would be best if left to get your things sooner rather than later,” he says, inclining his head. “I need to send a few emails to my students as well, cancel a few afternoon meetings.”

“You don’t gotta-”

“But I do,” Calvin corrects, and Charlie bites down on his lip, visibly pleased.

“Cool,” he says. “And yeah, I mean. Stuff will be nice. We can watch Netflix and shit. This hospital room sucks ass, dude, there’s not even a TV.” His nose wrinkles. “Can’t believe I gotta stay the night. Lame.”

Calvin rolls his eyes half-heartedly. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to bring you?” he asks. “Clothes, certainly, my laptop so you might watch TV...maybe some proper dinner, not hospital food? What would you say to some takeout from Amici’s?”

Charlie’s eyes light up. “Yeah?...Manicotti?” he fishes, lifting and wriggling his eyebrows. Calvin chuckles and nods, and Charlie’s shoulders do a sort of excited salsa.

“Sweeeeet. Do you- um. Since you’re goin’ to the bar and all...think you could get my phone from Dee? It’s gonna suck being in here all night without it, after you go home. Unless you wanna break me out?” Charlie’s voice twists in hope.

Calvin shakes his head. “I’m going to trust the advice of professionals and insist you remain the full night for check-ups. But I don’t mind getting your mobile from...Dee, when I drop by.”

“Boo,” Charlie says, and sighs. “But thanks, I guess. But, like, you _do_ know I’m gonna have to break out, eventually, right?”

“What do you-” _Oh._ “Oh. Damn.”

“Yeah, dude.” Charlie smirks, eyes squinted with mirth and that little glint of mischief he gets whenever he does something he knows is morally questionable. Unfortunately, Calvin finds it deeply attractive, and closes his eyes.

“...I assume you’ll need a getaway car?” he offers tiredly. He did not expect to aid and abet in a crime when he woke up this morning. He should probably evaluate the greater ramifications of that, but at the moment, doesn’t necessarily feel inclined. Of all the moral pyres to throw oneself on, the sanctity of the American healthcare system is hardly a contender.

“Uh, maybe?” He hears Charlie snicker. “Oh my god. Your face. Dude. Your first crime, man! Should I be like, proud?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, dude. It hurts to look at you, man, I mean, it's funny but it hurts. Will it make you feel better if I get a lot of free tests done to make sure I’m healthy and shit before we run?”

Calvin pauses, cracking an eye open. Well. That- that certainly couldn’t pose any _more_ harm, could it? Since Charlie has no insurance and can’t pay a cent anyways, he might as well...get the run-around? _Why did I choose to live in this country?_ he asks himself ruefully, hardly for the first time.

“Maybe,” he concedes, reluctantly. Charlie beams.

“Awesomeee,” he says, drawing out the syllables playfully. “Dude...I think I might be a bad influence on you or something.”

“Heaven forbid,” Calvin responds, a bit too honestly, and Charlie giggles.

“Don’t worry, dude, you’ll always be a nice guy. You’re, like, immune to stupid. But like...if I get a bunch of tests done. Uh. That’s a good thing, right?”

“What tests are you referring to, specifically?” Calvin asks, eyebrows furrowing, and Charlie shifts around.

“Uh,” he says. Beneath his gristle, his cheeks bloom pink. “You know. Tests that say. You know. That I’m clean, and all?”

Calvin’s heart thumps solidly in his chest. “Oh,” he says, blinking. “Well.” He clears his throat, feeling himself heat beneath Charlie’s attention. “Of course, it would be wonderful for you to make sure you’re healthy. But...it wouldn’t just be for...for _our_ sake, you realize?”

“Yeah, I know, I mean, I kinda wanna know if there’s anything, like. Bad in my blood or whatever,” Charlie says. “But, uh. If I’m good, we can. You know. Like you talked about.”

 _Ah._ “Erhm. Right. Yes.”

Calvin reminds himself that he’s an adult. An adult who’s been a part of multiple healthy, active sexual relationships. So the fact that he’s so flustered by this revelation that he can hardly speak is a complete embarrassment.

 _This is why my family can never learn of this,_ he thinks _. They’d be unbearable._

“Cool,” Charlie says, voice pitchy, and coughs. His ears are scarlet. “So. Uh. Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Good,” Calvin replies. There’s a beat where they awkwardly look at each other, before an uncontrollable grin spreads across Charlie’s face. It’s catching, and soon Calvin’s smiling like a loon right back at him, cheeks aching with it.

“Still gotta go? Because if you don’t leave, I’m totally gonna make out with you on this hospital bed, dude,” Charlie says promptly.

“Perhaps later,” Calvin says, with affected sorrow, and Charlie pouts. Heart light with fondness, he bends in to kiss Charlie goodbye; their lips meet in a gentle press and he begins to pull away, but Charlie apparently gets an idea and reaches out to hook his fingers into the sleeves of Calvin’s sweater like claws. Laughing under his breath, Calvin escapes and stands, and Charlie whines.

“I will see you later,” he promises. “With provisions. And your mobile.”

“Fineeeee,” Charlie says. “But hurry back before I die of boredom. I’m invoking hurt boyfriend privileges, so you’re on the clock, dude!”

“Of course, darling.” He waves as he goes, smiling. “I’ll be back soon.”

“At least you’re in a better mood,” Charlie calls after him, as he walks away. “Does this mean you’re not gonna murder the guys?”

Calvin pauses at the door. “I make no guarantees,” he intones, and turns his back.

“Oh, shit,” Charlie says, and the delightful sound of Charlie dissolving into laughter follows him down the hallway.

* * *

His desire for retribution has not, in fact, faded by the time by pulls up alongside the bar an hour later. In actuality, with deliberation and time, the anger from before has smoldered into flame. He's been unable to move past it or think of anything else on the drive over from his apartment, mind stuck on replay visualizing Charlie’s story over and over again, every reiterated imagining adding to his outrage like coal to a steam engine. He hasn’t heard a single word sung from the car radio since he left the apartment with items for Charlie, and there are indentations on his steering wheel from where his nails have dug into the leather. His jaw aches from being clenched for so long. He feels feverish.

Unbelievable. It's unbelievable. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so angry in his life.

He twists off the ignition in his car and jams the keys in his pocket, slapping the door lock with a hand as he slides out before slamming the door promptly shut. Looking across the street at the bar, seeing the ‘open’ sign flickering in the window, he imagines an ambulance parked in the exact same spot in his car, speeding away with a bleeding, unconscious Charlie inside.

He marches into the front door, pulse thundering in his ears.

The bar is empty, or close enough. It’s not quite like how he envisioned it. The cliche Irish decorations scattered about are tired and the wood of the floors and the bar is scummy with age and use, but it’s not the hovel Calvin had imagined it to be, in his worse moments. Charlie speaks often of the lengths he goes to in order to keep the place clean, and Calvin can place him here, sitting at the tables, sweeping the floors. The bathrooms, he’s sure, are quite a different story.

One of Charlie’s friends is sitting at the bar. It’s not one of the siblings from earlier, Dennis or Dee, and it’s not Frank, which leaves it only to be Mac. Ire sparks in Calvin’s gut like a match.

“Excuse me,” he says sharply, stopping just short of the bar a few stools down from where Mac sits, attention fixed on his cell phone.

“Bartender’s out or whatever, dude, he’ll serve you when he gets back,” Mac says, without looking up.

“Mr. Macdonald,” he says, through gritted teeth. The man’s hands spasm on his phone, his head whipping up at the surname. “I’m not here for _alcohol._ ”

“Holy shit, it’s you!” Mac says, eyes wide. “What the hell are _you_ doing here, man? You give Charlie a ride or something? Thought he was at the hospital still.”

“He is,” Calvin says lowly. “And that is exactly why I’m here.”

The tone in his voice seems to finally register with Mac, whose expression swiftly evolves from confused to annoyed. He starts to stand up, pocketing his phone and opening his mouth, and Calvin throws out an arm, finger in a sharp point.

 _“Sit. Down._ ”

Mac’s jaw goes slack in surprise, and he sits. It's not, Calvin notes, unsatisfying.

“You and I are going to have a discussion,” he says quietly, “-about what happened here earlier today. And you, along with the rest of your _friends,_ are going to listen.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, dude,” Mac starts up, finding his voice and pushing his palms abortively in Calvin’s direction. “Your tone is like, totally aggressive right now, and it's messing with my danger instincts, you know? So you should dial it back a bit, before I like, react naturally and/or with force. Are you this bossy with Charlie, dude? Because if you are, that might explain some things."

Calvin feels his nostrils flare. “I am not here to discuss my relationship with Charlie, and my _tone_ is damn well justified _._ Charlie is in the _hospital._  He is on an IV and stuck overnight for observation because he was drugged and left to bleed out all for some stupid- _bloody- game_ and you and your friends are responsible!”

“Jesus Christ, dude, would you relax? That shit was all Frank’s fault-”

“Oh, I'm _well_ aware of Frank's role in this,” Calvin snaps. “Charlie informed me as much. So I also know exactly what happened _after_ you left that- that _horror show_ in the basement-”

“Ohhhh, it's the Waitress thing, isn't it?” Mac says. “You're pissed Charlie saw her and shit?”

Shock stops Calvin cold, spreading through his ears to his fingers and toes. “I- what?”

Mac rolls his eyes. “Look, don't be jealous, Science Bitch, yeah she made Charlie cry and all and called him trash and disgusting in the humiliation round but when he saw her all he could do was babble about he was “taken now” or some shit, he was pretty out of it from blood loss by the point, it was super lame-”

“Mary was here?” Calvin demands. “She saw Charlie bleeding out and just- _shouted_ at him? She didn't call an ambulance or- or even _pause_ for a moment?”

Mac shrugs his cropped-teed shoulders. “Yeah, chick hates his guts. Also, Mary? Is that her _name_? Dude, you ruined my streak!”

Anger has returned to his body will full force, flooding beneath his skin to leave him steaming. “Why didn't _you?”_

“Why didn't I what?”

“ _Call_ an _ambulance!”_ he says, so loudly that Mac throws up his hands in a panicked flurry.

“Whoa, Jesus, we did eventually! We thought he’d be fine! He said he wanted to quit, yeah, but he said he was fine, so we figured-”

“He was _high_ and _bleeding!_ It doesn't matter what he _said,_ the lot of you have _eyes,_ don't you? How could you be so careless?!”

“Dude, I am _not_ the asshole here! I’m just sick and tired of losing to Dee and Dennis all the goddamn time, okay?!”

“Who cares about some bloody useless game?” Calvin shoots back with escalating fury. “Do you honestly think some competition is more important than Charlie’s _health?”_

“Uhhh, obviously?” Someone chimes in, and in strides the blonde woman from before, Dee, with who could only be her brother in tow. “Winning is like, all that matters, nerd. It’s how you sort the strong from the weak. Also, it's how we settle bets. Mac and Charlie owe us, like, fifty pounds of jumbo shrimp for that.”

“Wouldya look at that, Dee, speak of the devil: Doctor Buzzkill’s here too,” Dennis says, gesturing. “Don’t you have anything better to do, man? No papers to grade or something?”

“Sick burn, man!” Mac calls.

“Don't oversell it, Mac. He was schooling you like it was recess, you’re lucky we stepped in.”

 _God, are they this unbearable all of the time?_ “Wonderful how the two of you have decided to show up to your own establishment during business hours,” Calvin says coolly. “Your work ethic is truly inspiring. But if you could spare the time from your clearly busy schedule, I have some words to share with you.”

“Uh, you just did, boner,” Dee says, plopping down on a seat, denim-clad knees bending to hook her feet onto the bar stool's footrests. “Too many, actually, kinda overcompensating, wouldn't you say, Dennis?”

“Oh, definitely,” Dennis says, sitting next to her. His voice is gratingly forced with cocky nonchalance. “But you know those Ivy-types, right, all bark and no...bite?” He lifts a slow, challenging eyebrow Calvin's way, tilting his chin, and Calvin feels a wave of exasperation so powerful his entire head moves in an eyeroll.

“All of you are going to apologize to Charlie,” he says sharply, getting straight to the point. He wants to say what he has to and leave this place as soon as possible; he doesn't give a toss if they listen or not, and he sure as hell doesn't care to engage in some pseudo-intellectual, phallic debate over academic _credentials_. He gets plenty of that at bloody work, with far more tolerable individuals.

“Why the hell would we-”

“You all delayed taking Charlie to the hospital for a foolish competition. The two of you-” he points, “cruelly and selfishly pretended to care for his well-being only long enough to rub your “victory” in his face, and hurt his feelings horribly for sport.”

“Ugh, c'mon, you know how Charlie gets,” Dee complains, as Mac winces in the first show of regret Calvin's seen so far. "He cries like a little girl! He cries when he's happy! He cries watching cartoons!"

“You guys torched our piece in front of him? Wow. Pretty heartless, guys.”

“Oh, shut up, Mac, you're just a sore loser.”

“You made him cry,” Calvin levels out, stone-faced. His heart twinges at the mere memory. “He was hurt and high and you took advantage. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“Yikes. You guys are dicks,” Mac says, deflecting, at this point looking distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps there is hope for him, Calvin considers, but looking at the siblings there seems no cause for it.

“Look, dude, we both know you're only here to play Charlie's white knight to make yourself look good, alright?” Dennis leans onto the bar with an elbow. “Big mad nerd, like some rom-com lameass swooping in to save the day, huh? It's a pretty solid move, very Hugh Grant. Charlie's a romantic, he'll eat all this noble shit up.”

“Why is everything a manipulation with you people?” Calvin asks, throwing out his hands palm-up with frustration. “Charlie is my boyfriend and I _care_ about him. You hurt him, so you're bloody right I'm angry! But he isn't just upset, he's in the _hospital!_ His arm is wrapped in bandages! He collapsed! For God's sake, you're supposed to be his _friends!_ How can you treat him so awfully?”

“Look, Charlie's no saint, okay? I know he looks cute and scruffy and shit but he's an asshole too,” Dee huffs. “You're just so stupid into him you don't notice. It's sad and I'm like, embarrassed for you, and when you realize what he's actually like and dump him, it's gonna taste, uh, _pretty_ sweet.”

“He did not deserve to be treated that way, no matter how he behaves towards you,” Calvin fires back. “And I wouldn't hold my breath, Ms. Reynolds. I know Charlie fairly well by now, and I'm not going anywhere. As Charlie's friends, you're going to have to accept that, just like I've had to accept you.”

“Oh, ho ho! And Mr. High and Mighty shows his true colors," Dennis crows. "I knew there was a real man there somewhere beneath all that cliched good-guy bullshit. Good. Now, now we can level with each other. Like equals. Like men who give and deserve respect, am I right? Right. As one man of class to another, let me give you a little tip, Doc _-_ ”

“Doctor Emory,” Calvin corrects severely. No one can use that nickname but Charlie, least of all _this_ arsehole.

“Listen, Einstein,” Dennis says, casually reaching over the bar to snag a beer. Calvin bites his cheek to hold his tongue, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm. “Truth is? You don't know shit about us or about Charlie. That nerd has got _major_ skeletons in his closet. Moldy, hilarious, gross ones. I mean, his mom issues? Woof. His temper is like an exposed wire, too, he’ll fire off like _that_ if you brush him the wrong way. I’m sure you’ll see, if you haven't already.” The man's lips twist slowly into a cold, calculated smile. “To be honest with you, man? It's just a matter of time before you dump him and he comes crawling back. And then all your precious good-guy influence? Your hard earned work? It'll fade, and then Charlie will be a filthy, white trash ghoul-lover again.” Dennis laughs without breaking eye-contact, disturbingly theatrical. “Face it, man. You're just a...what's the word? Ah. A _phase,_ for our boy. Take our advice-- free of charge, you're welcome...spare yourself the crash and burn, and ditch while you can. We'll even break the news for you, if you're too much a nice guy to dump him yourself, bud.”

 _I am going to actually scream_ , Calvin thinks slowly, underneath genuine feelings of borderline hysteria, and only barely manages to clamp down on the rage building up inside him like a tidal wave. “Charlie is his own person, who makes his own choices,” he growls, so blindingly angry that the muscles of his neck hurt.

“Ehhhhh," Dee says. "His choices are more like impulses? And they never last.” She lets out a derisive chuckle that echoes her brother's bizarre confident ease. “Like hipsters who quit eating meat. Hate to break it to you, Science Bitch, but,” she cackles once, delighted, “Charlie might even dump _you_ first, once he realizes how boring you are. He has a tiny attention span, like a goldfish. I’m shocked he hasn’t gotten sick of you yet, dude. You should totally dump him first, I mean, if you’re gonna split anyway, might as well win.”

God. He wants to wipe the smug smile of their faces with such passion that his fists clench. He is so furious that he could-

Sudden vindictiveness strikes like lightning in his core, and he smooths his expression. His voice leaves his mouth unaffected, even amused, and he thinks, pridefully, that Charlie was right. He probably should have recorded this, for posterity. But if they're so intent on dramatics, then so be it.

“If I’m truly a phase as you say,” he asks calmly, lifting a brow and shifting a hip, “then why is Charlie moving into my apartment?”

There’s a truly delectable silence that makes the almost-truth worth it, and he cannot help but revel in the shock that crosses the siblings’s faces. Behind him, he hears Mac squawk with dismay.

“ _What?”_

“Ohhh, shit.”

“Bull _shit!”_ A voice shouts, and they turn to see who could only be Frank, a short balding man, storm in from the back office like a bat out of hell.

“Charlie isn’t goin’ anywhere!” Frank bellows, cheeks red and accent thick with rage. “You lying, schemin’-”

“Frank Reynolds,” Calvin says, the sight of him filling him with ice. “You’re the one who drugged Charlie. You, sir, are the most responsible of them all. And easily the most _reprehensible._ _”_

“I don’t gotta take shit from you, smartass!” Frank barks, stabbing a finger at him as he comes to stand next to a rising Mac. “It was a game and I won, and Charlie’s _fine!_ Kid can take a dose better than anyone I know, and you come in here over some stupid scratch-”

“He _cut into himself,_ ” Calvin says, spitting the words. “You dosed him, chained him and the _rest_ of these people in the basement, and he _hurt_ himself. That’s your responsibility, and if it weren’t for the fact that you were Charlie’s closest friends, I would have called the police and had you charged with assault!”

“ _Assault?”_ Frank howls, voice skyrocketing. “I’ll show you assault-”

“Jesus, Frank- Frank!” Mac yelps, quickly stepping between them. Calvin leans back, wary but angry enough to stand his ground. “Dude, maybe we should let this one go, I mean, you were kind of a psychopath today-”

“Charlie’s not movin’ in with this- this slippery  _miser!”_ Frank cries. Calvin’s spine stiffens solid, and around him everyone vocally announces their displeasure with a chorus of booes and groans.

“Excuse me,” Calvin says, voice steely.

Mac gapes down at Frank, cheeks pale. “Dude, seriously?”

“Can you seriously turn down the anti-semitism, Frank?” Dennis says. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You just- you make us look bad, dude. We can like, give this guy shit and everything, but not over _that._ Jesus Christ.”

“He’s stealin’ Charlie right from under my nose!” Frank insists, wringing his wrists. “And it’s just like his-”

“Frank, I swear to God if you say “his kind”, oh my God,” Dee looks like she wants to commit murder. “You’re so old and awful sometimes, it’s insane. I really can’t believe we thought we were related to you for half our lives.”

“ _Enough,"_  Calvin says. He’s at his limit. He wants out of this place. He wants Charlie and to never see these wretched people again. “I see that conversation is useless at this point. I have no desire to speak with thoughtless, inconsiderate _bigots_ who value competition over people they’re supposed to care for. I’m going to see Charlie, bring him dinner, and in the morning, bring him _home-_ ”

“The hell you are, you son of a whore- _”_

“Jesus Christ, Frank, you're embarrassing us,” Mac says, acting as a physical barrier before Frank and looking to the ceiling for patience, and Calvin squares his jaw.

“If any one of you value your relationship with Charlie, or care about him as your friend, you will reach out and apologize for putting him jeopardy. Hopefully, before he resumes work.” Calvin tosses a foul look at Frank. "It is the _least_ you can do.”

“Charlie knows exactly how I feel about him, ya British bastard,” Frank says, tosses up his middle finger. “We’re buddies, we’re tight- we’re the Gruesome Twosome! He’ll get over it, that’s how we do!”

“Oh, he _knows,_ does he?” Calvin barks out a humorless laugh, muscles rigid with the restraint of holding himself still. "So when he burst into tears earlier and told me how betrayed he felt by you _drugging him against his will,_ that was all in fun?”

Something in his words must get through, because Frank stops up short, the mottled red of his face fading. “Well,” the man grumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It was just a bit of liquid sleep, Charlie’s done harder shit before. Kid loves it. Hell, he probably didn’t even feel this dose.”

“So his previous drug use makes it alright for you to have tricked him?” Calvin’s words are hard and fast, vibrating with outrage like tensile metal strings. “You know nothing of Charlie’s tolerance, or else you'd recall he's been sober of hard drugs for _months_ now.It’s been tremendously difficult for him to avoid substances and he's worked so hard to control his urges, and in a single stroke, you ruined his streak of sobriety, broke his trust, and caused him to _hurt_ himself. How _dare_ you stand here and call yourself his friend, you miserable man?”

Behind him, Dennis lets out a long whistle, and Calvin turns quickly on a heel. “Is it your turn, then?” he snaps, heart pounding with hot flashes of rage. “Shall we start with your textbook narcissism first, or your disturbing predatory streak? I’ve heard tales of _all_ of you from Charlie in the months since I’ve known him, and believe me, I would be _happy_ to take each one of you down a peg or two had I the energy. You are altogether some of the most self-centered, cruel, sexist, racist, homophobic, anti-Semitic-”

“Whoawhoawhoa, how can _I_ be sexist? I’m a woman!”

“Listen, Doc, _Mac’s_ the homophobic one, just ask him about-”

“Yo, dude, Frank’s the only one who hates Jews, don’t lump us in with him-”

“But to be completely honest, I don’t give a damn about _any_ of you _,_ ” Calvin finishes, cutting them all off. “All I care about is Charlie. The _only_ reason I came down here was because he deserves far betterthan the friendship you give, and because he deserves to have _someone_ look out for him. Count yourself lucky he allows you in his life, for all the hell and pain you cause, because you are the most _pathetic,_ self-serving individuals I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting!"

Finished and frothing, Calvin stalks towards the door, but upon passing Dee’s stool, halts and reaches out a hand. She stares at it, at him, with wide-eyed disbelief.

“Charlie’s mobile, please,” he says, whip-sharp.

“Jesus. What makes you think I have it?” she asks, finding her voice and wrinkling her nose.

Calvin lets out a heavy sigh, briefly closing his eyes. _Honestly._ “You told me you possessed it earlier. In the hospital.”

Dee’s lips twist. “Goddamn it,” she mumbles, before digging into her jean pocket. She slides out the phone and slaps it clumsily into Calvin’s open palm. Calvin closes his grip on it and pulls away from her quickly, dipping his chin in a reflexive acknowledgement, before striding towards the door. He’s got his hand on the door handle before a shout stops him.

“Science Bitch! Hold up.”

Calvin looks over his shoulder to see Mac jog up, expression halfway between stubborn and sheepish. He lifts an eyebrow, resisting the overpowering urge to leave anyways, and Mac pauses in front of him.

“Hey. So.” He looks back nervously at the rest of them, who are watching them with varying degrees of lingering shock and outrage, and awkwardly crosses his bare arms when he meets Calvin’s eyes. “Is. Uh. Charlie doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” Calvin says. He withholds another explosive sigh, and decides to take this as the closest olive branch he’ll receive.  “...I’m sure he would like to hear from you at some point tonight.”

“He’s not, like, pissed off like you are?” Mac asks hesitantly, rubbing at his neck.

“He’s upset,” Calvin offers simply. “But concern from his closest friend, I believe, will go a long way.”

Mac’s eyes light up, like a golden retriever’s, and the expression is so disarmingly earnest that Calvin cannot help but think of Charlie. “Charlie told you I’m his best friend?” he asks, and Calvin buries a sigh. _Perhaps, on his own, Mr. Macdonald is not as unkind as his friends._

“Yes. He speaks of you often. All of you,” he says, pointedly, but holds Mac’s gaze alone to let the point sink home.

“Uh, sweet. I mean. Yeah. He’s my best buddy too, I just thought.” Mac shifts uncomfortably, gaze dancing from him to the floor. “You know. Since you’re his boyfriend and all that. Uh-”

 _God, is this really what they’re discussing right now? Of all things, at all times?_ “Just because Charlie and I are dating does not mean the two of you can no longer be close,” Calvin says, tiredly, because in coming to Paddy’s, the last thing he’d wanted to do was counsel someone who put his boyfriend’s life in actual danger. But if there’s opportunity for them to own up to Charlie and repair their relationship, then....he supposes he’ll take it. _But it shouldn’t be so easy._

“But if his dating me stops you from being a good friend to him, for any reason, then the fault is your own,” he says firmly, grasping the bar door and turning away. “Goodbye, Mr. Macdonald.”

“Uh. See ya.”

Calvin opens the door, leaves, and heads to his car.

* * *

“Dude,” Charlie says later, snuggled against Calvin’s side. He lifts his mobile display-out, the laptop propped on his legs swaying a bit where it’s streaming _The Good Place._ “Mac just texted me.”

“Mm?” Calvin doesn’t lift his eyes from the screen, where Janet is currently begging cheerfully for death.

“Dude. He’s like. Apologizing.”

Calvin lifts a cool eyebrow. “Is he?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, confused, and squints suspiciously at the screen. “It’s...weird.”

“Hm. Maybe he feels sorry for earlier.”

In his peripheral vision, he sees Charlie turn his narrowed gaze him. “...Dude. You have something to do with this, or something? Did you like. Beat up Mac?”

Calvin chuckles, shifting comfortably into Charlie’s side as well as he can on the cramped hospital bed. “Of course not. I...may have _suggested_ he apologize. That’s all. Nothing...coercive.”

“Oh my god. You scared him into apologizing to me. Dude. That’s... _awesome._ ”

“I did not _scare_ him-”

“You’re a badass. And tough. A tough badass boyfriend. Oh my god, I _am_ a bad influence, aren’t I? I’m like, making you a supervillain, and soon you’re gonna be like, way too powerful, that’s so cool-”

Calvin tips back his head in a laugh, and careful not to send the laptop hurtling, gently tugs Charlie in for a kiss.

“You’ve got so many Awesome Boyfriend Points, dude,” Charlie says when he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m never gonna catch up.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“You have any douchebag friends I can beat up?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Calvin smiles. “But I’m sure you can think of something.”

Charlie’s eyes get that mischievous glimmer from earlier, the one that makes Calvin's stomach feel flighty. “Yeah. Well. I’ve got some ideas.”

“Already?” he asks. His heart gives a warm, weighty thud.

“Got a couple tests while you were gone,” Charlie says. “I passed ‘em all.”

 _Oh._ “Oh.”

Charlie grins, unfathomably, incredibly cocky. “Sure you don’t wanna skip out tonight?” he asks.

Calvin’s pulse skips, and he licks his lips.

“I. Well. I don’t know-”

“Doc," Charlie wheedles. "It’s my turn to earn some boyfriend points. Plus, this bed blows.” He presses meaningfully into Calvin’s side, pliant and purposeful. The warmth of his skin radiates through the thin cotton of his hospital gown, and it's everything Calvin wants after this preposterous, unbelievable, ludicrous day. “Let’s go home, dude.”

_Home._

“...Alright,” he finds himself saying, hand moving to take Charlie's in his own, heart in his throat.

“ _Sweet._  Let's go before the orderly makes his rounds, dude. Help me get this IV out."

"Good Lord. Fine, grab the laptop. Don't move so fast, you'll hurt yourself!"

"I've totally done this before, dude, don't even worry about it. See? Easy! C'mon, help me put my pants on, it's cold in here, man."

 "...Of course, darling."

*          *          *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D hope this was a fun ride for y'all and that you aren't totally underwhelmed by doc's shakedown lmao (also, hope y'all are enjoying s13 because i sure as shit am)
> 
> i tried to add to deepen Doc's character in this chap, and left some bread crumbs about his history, hopefully that was alright ;) i'm a weak fool for hurt/comfort and defensive boyfriend tropes and this chapter was a tribute to both, as you can see askjdf;alsdkfjd

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading, and please tell me what you think! i love, love, love feedback, and talking to other fans of this ship (and its parent ship) on tumblr. hmu @ apprenticeofdoyle if you ever wanna gush, bc i'm always down to talk about these two losers, iasip, or pacific rim. <3
> 
> (title cred: 'loving is easy' by rex orange county, ft. benny sings)


End file.
